


Covered in Crimson

by cklls



Series: Covered in Crimson [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Borderline incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 152,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cklls/pseuds/cklls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco awakens to find himself in an unfamiliar place, having apparently committed an unspeakable crime, with no wand, and no memory of how he got there. Will he save his victim from certain death, or will he be the heartless killer everyone has believed him to be? Nominated for "Best Multi-Chapter Story" in the Deathly Hallows Awards - December 2010. Please note that this work is NOT for the faint of heart. Very dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awareness

He’d never been one to sleep particularly soundly, but as he slowly came to awareness with the faint light streaming through the room’s only window, Draco felt unusually stiff and groggy, as though he’d been deeply asleep for days, not hours. He hadn’t yet opened his eyes, and rolled to his side to remove the offending sunbeam from his line of vision. It was then that he realized that he was not on a bed, nor a sofa, not even a chair, but stretched out on the hard, cold, and dusty wooden floor.

With a rumbling groan, Draco rubbed at his face with both hands, trying to rouse himself to full alertness. “What the hell happened last night?” he muttered. Noting that his hands felt sticky, he finally resolved to drag one eye open with all the energy he felt able to muster, wondering what he’d been up to that had left him dirty, sore, and sleeping naked on the floor. “Did I have too much fun to remember?” he mentally snickered.

His amusement was short-lived. “Fucking hell!” he roared as his now-open eyes told him the stickiness was not the residue of some amorous encounter. He was covered in thick, red, coagulated blood. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Draco’s immediate instinct toward self-preservation led to a quick survey of his body with eyes and hands. He was surprised to find only superficial scratches on his torso and arms, and a couple of deeper cuts on his face, but nothing that would account for this much blood. As his panicked breathing slowed upon his realization that he was not in immediate danger of bleeding to death, he noted that most of the blood was on his hands and arms, and – “Oh, shit,” – on his groin and thighs. “What have I done?”

Scrambling to his feet clumsily, Draco rapidly took in his surroundings and found them to be completely unfamiliar. The single window that had been the source of his unwelcome wake-up call was barely covered by a tattered, graying piece of linen that might have been called a curtain fifty years ago. Surprised that any light had filtered through the filthy glass, Draco moved the crumbling window covering aside to see a thoroughly unfamiliar landscape.

He turned into the room with a great deal of reluctance, afraid of what he’d find. He was standing between the window and a small, equally dirty bed that was barely large enough for one adult. A small desk and wooden ladder-back chair rested against the opposite wall, perpendicular to the wall housing the window. There were two doors opposite the window, and a third beside the desk. “Closet, bath, and exit,” he guessed in a murmur, but didn’t take the time to determine which was which.

Draco looked at the floor to see drops and smears of blood leading to the other side of the bed. With his heart pounding and mouth suddenly dry, he stepped around the piece of furniture to find the body of a young woman, also naked and even more covered in blood than he. His knees gave way and he tumbled to the floor, scrambling away from the prone form. “Oh, fuck.”

Shaking with fear, Draco tried to breathe deeply to stop himself from hyperventilating, with only limited success. He gasped loudly and coughed violently for several moments until he was able to regain control of his faculties. His brain was ticking rapidly through a number of scenarios to explain how and why he’d found himself in this situation, none of them good. Had he drank too much and picked up a streetwalker? But why would he have ki…? “Shit, shit, shit-- Hey! Hey!” He belatedly tried to rouse with woman with a shout, thinking that maybe, however unlikely it seemed, that like he had been, she was just sleeping deeply. He was unsurprised but still horrified to get no response. Crawling a bit closer to the still form, Draco reached out with a trembling hand to touch the woman’s foot. Repulsed by the grime and blood covering the appendage, he pulled back once, twice, before actually making contact. He pinched and shook while hoarsely whispering, “Hey, wake up,” and suddenly worrying about whether they were alone in this … wherever they were.

Still getting no response, he stretched further to reach her wrist. Placing his fingers against the cool skin, he searched for the gentle thudding that would relieve his fears of having found himself with a dead woman. He was only a little less panicked when he found that his victim did indeed have a pulse, but it surely wasn’t strong, fast, or healthy. This woman was undoubtedly very near death.

“Wand, where’s my wand?” Draco muttered, eyes darting about the room to look for the thin piece of hawthorn. A rapid search of furniture surfaces and floor yielded nothing resembling a wand. Draco darted first to the door beside the desk and slowly opened it, lest he be confronted with someone or something undesirable on the other side. He found only a closet containing a few wooden clothes hangers, but no clothes and absolutely no wand. It then dawned on him that his own clothes were not immediately visible in the room, nor were the woman’s. “Loo – maybe there.” He gingerly stepped over the woman’s unmoving body, trying to avoid the largest puddle of blood, to face the two adjacent doors, reaching first for the one on the right. It was indeed the loo, but he quickly determined that it contained no clothes and again, no wand. That left one option. He’d have to open the door that clearly led to an outside world in some form.

Slowly, quietly, Draco turned the handle and pushed the door open just a couple of inches, hoping to see in what kind of structure he’d spent the night: inn, house, hotel – whatever he found would determine his next step.

The door didn’t creak nearly as much as he’d feared it would, and Draco opened it fully as he discovered that there was no person, no sound on the other side. He stepped over the threshold into a narrow, dark hallway. It appeared that there was at least one other bedroom at the far end of the relatively short corridor, and the near end opened into a dingy sitting room. He crept along the wall quietly until he nearly tripped over a lump of black fabric piled along the baseboard. “My cloak,” he murmured, breathing a sigh of relief. “My wand must be there.” He lifted the garment, shaking it out to gain access to the interior pocket, and was deeply dismayed to discover that his source of hope was not where he'd felt certain it would be. Patting down the rest of the cloak and feeling along the floor nearby yielded no better result.

Now confident that there were no other inhabitants – human ones, in any case – Draco dashed into the sitting room and again searched for the one item no wizard ever wants to be without. When he was unsuccessful in that room, he made his way to what appeared to be the only other room in the small cottage, a decidedly Muggle-style kitchen. No wand and not much luck were found there either. He did manage to find a few pieces of cloth that had probably been used as dishtowels at one time, and filled an old pot with water from a tap that surprised him by actually supplying the clean, clear liquid.

He moved back into the tiny bedroom to kneel beside the woman whom he’d apparently had some role in harming. He gingerly turned her over to see if he could do something to ensure that her bleeding had stopped, and saw that the great pool of blood he’d side-stepped earlier had clearly come from between her legs. He gulped in shame, horror and humiliation. “Oh, Merlin. Did I do this? This can’t be true. I’m not that kind of man.” He felt a niggling doubt, though, at what kind of man he was, exactly. Nothing seemed clear; nothing seemed familiar.

He surveyed the damage and found that the woman had wounds on her breasts and livid bruises around her neck. Her face was obscured by a mass of dark, curly hair, which Draco thought vaguely reminded him of someone he hadn’t seen in a number of years. “If I didn’t know better, it could be…” His voice trailed off as he used a dampened cloth to clear the matted tresses away to reveal the woman’s identity. He gasped as he saw her bruised and battered face, still recognizable. "Granger?”


	2. Predicament

Draco barely made it to the tiny bathroom before losing the contents of his stomach in a series of violent heaves. His body shivered with shock and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing this to have all been a terrible nightmare. His wheezing breaths and choking gulps told him otherwise. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he was reviled again to find it still covered in dried blood – Granger’s blood. Blood just as red as his own. He retched once more, but there was nothing left in him.

He started to search his memory. What had happened? How did they come to be here? Had he really done this to her? Where were the rest of their clothes? Where was her wand? Why couldn’t he recall anything of his actions for the past few days? He was stunned to find that he didn’t have answers to any of his questions, and his head started to pound with the apparently futile effort to remember. “First things first,” Draco mumbled to himself. He turned on the tap and quickly rinsed his hands, then scooped water into his mouth to chase away the horrible taste his sickness had left behind. He then stepped back into the bedroom and fell to his knees at the still woman’s side.

“Granger. Granger! Wake up! Come on – wake up!” he pleaded with her, his voice gruff and insistent. When he got no response, he began to ponder their predicament – his predicament. Maybe she wasn’t alive anymore. He just couldn’t bring himself to think “dead.” Maybe he should just wash the blood off his own body, grab his cloak, and get the hell out of here. But where was “here,” exactly? He had no clue other than the rural setting he’d seen from the window a few minutes earlier.

Draco growled in frustration. He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t really know what he had done, although some damning evidence was staring him in the face. No one who'd ever witnessed their school interactions would have said that he ever came close to even tolerating Granger, but he didn’t hate her this much. And violence of this sort was deeply, passionately hateful. As far as he could recall, it had been more than two years since he’d even caught a glimpse of her, in Hogsmeade, just after what would have been the end of their seventh year at Hogwarts, if the war had not closed the school and sent them scattering to their own battles.

Still naked, and only the blood from his hands removed, Draco knelt on his haunches beside her and once again reached for her wrist to find any signs of life. He was stunned that she whimpered softly in response to his touch. He withdrew his hand as though it had touched open flame, and scrubbed a palm across his face. “What now? She’s alive, but can I keep her that way? Do I want to?” he muttered aloud. Draco’s conscience was warring with his selfish nature.

Whatever small part of humanity contained in Draco’s soul reared its head and he made a decision. He spoke to her softly, quickly, and as calmly as he could under the circumstances. “Granger, I don’t really know what happened here, but it seems that I may have had something to do with it. I don’t remember. I can’t find my wand or yours, and I don’t know anything about Muggle medicine. I don’t know; I don’t think I can save you, but I’ll try to give you some dignity in your death. That’s all I can promise for now. I’m, uh, sorry that it had to come to this, Granger. ”

With that, he picked up a cloth from the pile he’d gathered from the kitchen and dipped it into the pot of cool water, and ringing it out, he began to clean the blood from her body.


	3. Casting and Brewing

_**Six Years Ago**_

“Lucius, I’m telling you, your heir will not be the man you are. His mother has coddled him for far too long, and he’s soft,” the dark-haired man sneered as he spoke.

“He’ll be fine, Rodolphus. You hear how he talks about the Mudbloods in his class. He knows what we believe, and he’ll do what he needs to when the time comes.” Lucius leaned back in the massive chair behind his desk, lifting a crystal tumbler, containing exactly two inches of Ogden’s, neat, to his lips.

“So you say. I’m not convinced. I’m thinking we should introduce a few inducements to ensure his loyalty and keep him appropriately focused.”

Lucius rose to his feet rapidly and lifted his cane to point at his brother-in-law’s throat. “You will keep your nose out of my business, or I’ll make sure that you’ll not have a nose left. I will handle my son. He’s a Malfoy; he will do what he must. Now, leave it!”

Rodolphus was no genius, but he was not stupid either. He knew when he had pushed too far. “Fine, Lucius, fine. I’ll leave him to you. But just know that the Dark Lord has noticed that Draco is reluctant to participate even in training exercises, and seems to find our methods distasteful. That’s not going to fly when he’s called to be a leader in our movement. And you know that will happen. Think about it.”

With that, the elder Lestrange brother rose from his seat and stalked over to the fireplace. Picking up a pinch of Floo powder, he dropped it into the flames, turning to leave his parting shot. “We’ll be watching, Lucius.” He stepped into the green flickering mass, speaking the name of his destination, “Leaky Cauldron.”

Lucius Malfoy dropped back into his chair and bellowed for a house-elf, “Tuppy!” who appeared at his feet immediately. “Find my wife and ask her to join me here.” It was only a moment later that Narcissa Malfoy rapped once on the closed door, and then opened it to meet her husband’s summons.

“You wanted to see me, Lucius?”

“Your sister’s husband just left. He came to talk to me about Draco.”

“And?” Narcissa could only imagine what complaint or concern Rodolphus had manufactured today. He was constantly complaining about Draco’s lack of enthusiasm for "Dark" activities. She’d often had to bite her tongue to forestall an argument with the irascible man over the fact that Draco was still just a boy. He wasn’t even fifteen yet, and she hoped that someone would find a way to end this brewing dispute before Draco had no choice but to be immersed in it.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard from him before, he doesn’t believe that Draco is tough enough, that he hasn’t displayed enough zeal for the Dark Lord and his cause.”

“Yes, I certainly have. Both he and Bellatrix have been quite vocal in wanting to drag Draco into this fight before his time. Lucius, he’s only fourteen. Can’t we let him be a boy for a while longer?” Narcissa pleaded.

Lucius sighed deeply. “He may be a boy, but he’s a Malfoy. He has responsibilities and a position to uphold. If our family loyalty is questioned, it wouldn’t just go badly for Draco, but for all of us, Cissy. I’d rather not expose us further than necessary.”

“The Dark Lord has only just returned, Lucius. Surely it will take some time to amass his forces and organize a strategy. There’s still substantial opposition from the Order and the Ministry, to say nothing of the general populace. Regardless of our position or Draco’s involvement, this will not be a quick or an easy fight. I’d like to spare him as long as possible.”

“I understand your viewpoint. But you must also realize that the sooner he gets involved, the more likely it is that he will rise in the ranks, and the less likely he’ll be battle fodder. He has the potential to be a leader, Narcissa, and I’ll not sacrifice that opportunity for him either.”

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse, then. I promise you this, Lucius. I will do everything in my power to shield him as long as possible. I will not lose my only son.”

“If Draco decides differently for himself, Narcissa, you’ll not have much choice, now, will you?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In a dark corner of a dingy pub, husband and wife spoke in harsh whispers. Their cloaked and hooded forms, with a liberal dose of Disillusionment and Muffliato spells, ensured their privacy.

“It was not a particularly productive meeting, Bella. Lucius has not been willing to commit Draco’s services to the Dark Lord to the degree that we’d hoped. I feel quite certain that your sister is influencing him heavily to keep Draco away from our fight. She’s shielding him once again, as she always has. We need Draco to be more involved in keeping an eye on Potter and Dumbledore, and we can’t even get cooperation on that.”

Bellatrix pouted, her full red lips forming a moue of distaste and disappointment. “I told you my sister would not be helpful in this. She’s no stomach for a fight of any sort; she always wants to find the path of least resistance. And where Draco is concerned, she’ll not let loose of those strings until her hand is forced somehow.”

“Maybe we need to find a way to force that hand, Bella. Up for a little brainstorming?” Rodolphus’ face was split by a nasty grin as his devious thinking began to take shape.

“What did you have in mind, husband?” Bella’s full-throated laugh pierced the stagnant air around them, drawing the attention of the barkeep even through the many layers of concealment they had placed around them.

“A potion. In fact, a series of potions. Maybe reinforced by a spell or two.”

“Do tell!” Bella nearly bounced with glee.

“What if we could develop a potion form of the Imperius curse? And maybe layer in something that reduces inhibitions. Keep him suggestible. How would we get it to him, though?”

“Hmmm. Interesting. The concept has merit, but potions need to be constantly re-administered, unlike a spell that you can cast which only needs reinforcement once in a while.”

“True, that could be a problem for longer term effectiveness.” Both were quiet for a while as they absorbed the potential benefits and issues of the approach.

Bella clapped her hands together and shrieked in triumph. “I’ve got it, Rod – I know how to do it. Lucius and Narcissa will give us their son, and they won’t even know it.”


	4. Cleansing

_There had been so much blood. Draco could barely comprehend that a person had that much blood inside them; how someone could survive with so much of it spilled was beyond his ken. He had had to refill his pot of water six times simply to keep from reapplying blood to her cool, pale body. He felt certain that these moments would never leave his memory…_

“Granger, I need to lift you if I’m to get you cleaned up. I’m just going to put you on the bed so I can do this better.” His voice had been low and quiet, some instinct telling him that it would calm them both. It was undeniable that they both needed soothing in this horrible, intimate moment. His head had been pounding for what felt like hours now, but had truly only been about forty-five minutes since he’d awakened to this nightmare. He’d never had a headache so intense. Was this part of a hangover that had also affected his memory of what had happened in this tiny room? He hadn’t seen any evidence of drinking anywhere in the ramshackle cottage – no empty bottles, no half-filled glasses. The pain, though, was nearly unbearable. He surmised that Granger was probably in pain too. She’d whimpered and moaned as he’d slowly, gently, laved the drying blood from her skin. Draco wondered if she was aware, if she was afraid. “I’m not going to hurt you, Granger. Not anymore,” Draco promised under his breath. He briefly questioned what prompted him to be gentle with her now when he’d obviously been anything but that mere hours earlier.

When he’d wedged him arms under her knees and shoulders to lift her onto the small, cotton-covered bed, he had imagined that her eyes flickered open briefly, but there had been no repeat and he concluded that it had been his imagination. Her raised position had allowed him to more easily clean her body, and to comprehend the damage that had been done to her. With a resolute hand, he’d lifted her left knee and washed her bruised inner thighs of thick, smeared blood. The heavy lump and tightness in his throat had made it difficult to breathe. He absently reflected that this was what guilt felt like. He had momentarily squeezed his eyes shut as he’d run the wet, stained cloth over her swollen vulva. The tearing at her vaginal opening was obvious, though it appeared that the wound was now clotted. He’d felt disturbed at seeing her injuries, and even more distressed at the thought that while he was tending to her so intimately, he had been the cause of her near-death state. “If I did this, and I can’t see how I wasn’t the one responsible, why do I feel so horrible about it now? What would have made me behave as such an animal, to treat her as an animal? I don’t understand. What did I do? Why did I do this? How did we even come to be together here?” Draco’s thoughts had swirled round and round but no answers to his question were found.

It had taken him the better part of an hour to completely clean Hermione’s battered body. The marks on her breasts had appeared to be bites – human bites. Her nipples and aureoles were red, swollen and abraded. The bruises he’d seen on her neck were undoubtedly made by fingers, his own fingers. “I raped her. And I tried to choke her to death,” Draco concluded. He’d sat, naked and still covered in Hermione’s blood, in the small wooden chair for nearly an hour, just watching her lying motionless on the bed. Comprehension refused to come. Knowledge of what he’d done was apparent, but why was not so easy. And he’d wondered over and over, “Why did I do this?” For the umpteenth time, he had no answer. He’d watched her chest rise and fall in slow, shallow breaths. She was still alive, but she hadn’t regained awareness. “Is she in a coma?” he wondered, and then realized that he didn’t really comprehend what that meant. He was familiar with the term, but that was the extent of his knowledge.

Draco’s headache hadn’t abated in the least, and he’d started to shiver. He had only his dusty cloak to keep warm, and he’d placed that over Hermione’s body in another small act of compassion. He hadn’t wanted to move her to release the thin sheet and blanket that were trapped under her. Soon, he’d have no choice, or he’d freeze. “After what I’ve done to her, maybe I deserve it. We’ll die together here, and no one will ever know,” Draco mused.

Slumping against the chair’s high back, Draco stretched his long, pale legs, his vision drifting down to see the blood that he still hadn’t washed from his own body. With a deep grunt, he forced himself to rise, and walked over to the tiny bathroom. He’d already discovered that there was no hot water to be had, but the tap and the shower functioned. The shower stall wasn’t exactly clean, but it wasn’t desperately grimy either, so that seemed to be his best choice. Draco turned on the water and rested his head on the arm he’d leaned against the gray tile. He was almost reluctant to wash her blood from his body; the guilt wouldn’t be washed away so easily, and this tangible reminder of his deed somehow seemed necessary.

Shaking his head in an effort to stem the endless flow of thought, Draco reached for one of the less-stained pieces of cloth that he’d left on the sink and, pushing the plastic curtain aside, stepped under the frigid stream of water. He’d taken more than one cold shower in his day, but this was just totally, entirely different. There was no arousal to staunch, and “cold” didn’t come close to describing the feel of icy needles against his skin. He thought his brain might explode right through the top of his head, the throbbing had become so vicious. For the first time in many years, he thought he might actually cry. Over what, he wasn’t exactly sure.

Without soap to aid him in his ablutions, Draco rinsed the dingy cloth as best he could under the stream of water, and began to scrub aggressively against his skin. Though he’d washed his hands earlier, they’d become stained again in the process of moving, then cleaning, Granger. His forearms, marked by things darker than blood, were rubbed raw before he turned his attention to his torso, and finally to the area he’d been subconsciously avoiding. The wiry blond hair of his pubis was dark and matted. His penis, completely flaccid and shriveled against the cold, was coated in dried fluids, and he gingerly pulled back his foreskin to clean the head. It felt sore, tender to the touch. He mused that he’d been brutal enough to hurt himself while he was hurting her. That made him feel marginally better, that he’d deserved this ache. In a disconnected way, he imagined that he wouldn’t want sex for quite a while. He scrubbed ruthlessly against his thighs, down his calves to the bottoms of his feet, which were coated in both blood and dirt. He’d never felt so utterly, completely filthy.

He turned off the water, and leaned his head against the side of the stall, allowing the water to drip off his body. Finally, he gave into the urge and wept.


	5. Manipulations

_**Five Years and Nine Months ago …** _

“Is everything ready, husband?” Bella queried as she glided into the dimly lit, awful-smelling laboratory.

“As it will ever be, dearest,” came the uncharacteristically warm reply from the normally gruff man. Rodolphus was as happy as he’d been in an age, and a snarling smile displayed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

“Good. Give me the package. I can’t be late. Draco leaves for Hogsmeade tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, and my sister will have made sure everything is packed before they retire tonight.”

“You won’t be late, Bella. Stop fussing. I just wanted to test the potion one last time to be sure that the alterations can’t be detected.”

“You’ve tested it nine times and I’ve tested it six. It’s never shown to be anything other than a delectable tidbit. We’ve done this perfectly, and it’s time to go! I’m losing my patience,” Bella seethed between clenched teeth.

“Fine. Here it is.” With a last breath of annoyance and exasperation, Rodolphus handed the beautifully wrapped package to his irritated wife. “If you do this right, they’ll never think that it’s something they should be checking. Don’t screw it up.”

With a wide-eyed glare, Bellatrix grabbed at the package her husband offered in out-stretched hand. “You’ve got plenty of supply?” she asked in confirmation. His curt nod was the silent reply she’d anticipated.

“Good. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Bella departed through the Floo network for her sister’s home, a smirk worthy of the House of Malfoy marring her features.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco slept soundly in his massive, silk-covered bed. He’d had a wonderful summer holiday, relaxing at the family villa in Milan, reading, celebrating his fifteenth birthday, and enjoying his first real sexual experiences with a girl he’d met while visiting with Blaise Zabini on the French Riviera. It had been the happiest time of his life. Tonight, he dreamed of Quidditch and potions classes and the weekly care packages he knew his mother would send. Draco’s sweet tooth – and his great reluctance to share – was legendary among his Slytherin housemates. Only the finest confections were allowed to pass the lips of young Mr. Malfoy, except for the occasional Sugar Quill, which was the guiltiest of his culinary pleasures. And Narcissa Malfoy was an indulgent mother, regardless of her husband’s protestations of her perceived spoiling of the young one.

So when a beautiful package of confections was added to the pile that would be accompanying Draco back to Hogwarts in the morning, no one was suspicious and no alarm was raised. The rich, dark chocolate truffles, filled with Hawaiian macadamia nuts, coated in the best Dutch cocoa powder and laced with three potions that would alter his very nature, would become Draco’s new favorite treat.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A manic cackle split the air of the Lestrange residence as Bella returned from her nefarious mission. “It’s done, Rodolphus! He’ll be ours in a matter of weeks. The Dark Lord will be so pleased.” Bella twirled around the room like a child dancing in a new dress, arms upraised, face alight with fulfillment. From a dark corner of the room, her husband, pleasantly affected by the immoderate quantities of firewhisky he’d consumed, watched her move with amusement as he lounged on an antique settee.

“Come here, witch,” he growled, tugging her into his lap as she spun past him. She responded with a growl of her own, and bared her teeth to nip at his neck. He shivered in response, and downed the remains of his drink in one swallow, carelessly dropping the glass on the floor as his attentions were diverted elsewhere. He roughly grabbed at his wife’s breast, grinding his palm against the distended tip. When she moaned in satisfaction, he grasped the top of her robe’s bodice and ripped it down in one swift motion. Finding his target, Rodolphus scraped his teeth against her straining breast, biting down harder and then suckling on the nipple as she pushed toward him. Lifting her skirt, she shifted around to straddle his lap, placing one knee on either side of his thighs. She could feel his growing erection throbbing against her center. Lifting just enough to allow his hands room to unbutton his trousers, Bella took his lower lip between her teeth and bit down, drawing a bead of blood. When he was free of the confinement of his pants, she positioned herself over his stiffened length. “Now. Hard,” she rasped. He obliged.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco’s trip back to Hogwarts was uneventful, a mind-numbing journey punctuated by a visit from Pansy Parkinson who whined about not having seen him over the holiday, and the constant presence of Crabbe and Goyle, who sniggered over their own inane commentary and innuendo. Draco’s patience with them was wearing thin. Was intelligent conversation too much to ask, he wondered? Sadly, he’d found few opportunities for that with his Slytherin comrades. Only Zabini among his classmates seemed to value intellectual debate and discourse, and while they were friends – as much as any Slytherin was wont to be – they were not so close that they’d spend hours in each other’s company. Draco couldn’t really seek out companionship among other houses; it just wasn’t done. As much as he might have valued the mental stimulation he might have found in a friendship with a Ravenclaw, or the excitement the Gryffindors seemed to relish together, he’d be ostracized from his pureblood society without a second thought. Hufflepuffs really weren’t worth the mention or notice, so his sole source of relationships was the sorry group of Slytherins who shared his living space during ten months of the year. Looking out the window of the Hogwarts Express, Draco sighed and resigned himself to finding new sources of amusement in his own imagination.

He looked forward to settling in to his new dorm room. Fifth-year boys got a little more space, being considered upperclassmen now. By virtue of his place in the pecking order, he’d command first choice of bed and storage space, and he’d do his best to ensure as much privacy as he could muster while sharing sleeping quarters with four other teenagers. The house-elf assigned to their dormitory would then unpack his clothes, books, supplies, and sundry items while he sorted through the goodies his mother had certainly sent along. The aggravation of the long train ride, and the shorter but no less annoying Sorting and Welcoming Feast, surely deserved a little treat to soothe him before retiring for the night.

Draco was not disappointed. He found no fewer than seven packages of assorted sweets tucked into a large hamper that had accompanied his trunks on the journey from Wiltshire. One in the bunch was intriguing; he’d never seen this particular wrapping – a shiny silver box tied with a lavish and intricate green and silver bow – and his curiosity was piqued. He leaned against his headboard with the package on his lap, and with a flick of his wand drew the draperies around his bed for some quiet and privacy. He untied the bow and opened the box, finding lovely truffles just waiting to be devoured. Eagerly, he lifted one to his lips and bit into the center, releasing a delighted moan with a roll of his eyes as the flavor reached his taste buds, and the insidious potion contained therein hit his bloodstream. These creations were beyond delicious, and he was positively hooked. He ate one more, then set the box aside. Quickly stripping out of his clothes, Draco pulled on a pair of silk sleep pants and crawled under the covers, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	6. Awakening

Draco spent ten more agonized minutes shuddering in the freezing shower stall before regaining his composure enough to think about what he would have to do next to ensure his, or their, survival. He was still not convinced that Granger would make it through another night, her injuries and blood loss had been so severe.

The cold temperature had been enough to evaporate the remaining water from his skin, but Draco was chilled to the bone. He needed to find something to wear, and he didn’t want to deprive Granger of the warmth of his heavy cloak; he’d done enough damage already. But, he thought, if I don’t take care of myself, there’s no way I can also take care of her. Reluctantly, he removed the cloak from her body and gently turned her to her side to try to free the thin blanket and sheet. She whimpered softly at the movement, but still did not awaken. “I’m sorry, Granger, but I need to get you covered up,” he whispered. With a little more tugging and shifting, he finally loosened enough of the material to wrap her in the two layers of worn fabric. He was a bit encouraged that she’d still made noise and reacted, at least minimally, to his touch. That had to be a positive sign, he thought. The next flash across his brain was more sinister – _just why should I care, and who says it’s a good thing to keep her alive?_ He shuddered against the thought, and deliberately pushed it away. “No! She doesn’t deserve that any more than I do,” Draco exclaimed aloud, trying to convince his inner demons of the truth in his statement. Wrapping his cloak around his shivering shoulders, Draco stepped out into the hallway. A deeper search of the cottage was in order.

He’d not carefully searched any of the rooms except the one in which he’d first awakened. The cursory review he’d made as he looked for his wand hadn’t exposed many of the structure’s secrets. First look would go to the other bedroom he’d seen at the end of the hallway. He opened the door to reveal a slightly larger room than the one where Granger now slept. It featured two windows, one each on perpendicular walls, and two additional doors which he assumed to be the closet and a small bath, similar to the original room. He’d explore those momentarily.

The room contained a larger bed, probably queen size, a tall dresser, a lady’s writing desk with a matching chair, and an overstuffed arm chair in one corner. All of the furniture was made of dark wood, mahogany or cherry, he thought, reminiscent of pieces in his own room at Malfoy Manor.

“Lots of possibilities here,” he mumbled aloud. Draco decided to inspect the dresser first, and pulled open the top drawer. He found nothing, and his heart sank in disappointment. Draco mentally chided himself for not being more optimistic about the other seven drawers’ contents. The second drawer yielded a gray t-shirt, stained and threadbare. The third was as empty as the first, as were the fourth and fifth. His luck changed for the better when he opened the sixth drawer. There he found a few bath towels and a set of sheets, worn but clean. These he tossed on top of the bed for future use. The seventh drawer contained another t-shirt, this one in faded red cotton. The final drawer held the best of the haul – a pair of black jogging pants, three sets of once-white cotton athletic socks, one pair of jeans, and a light blue woolen jumper.

Draco felt as though he’d just found a trunk full of galleons. With a broad smile, his first in what felt like a month, Draco reached for the jeans and pulled them over his slim legs and hips. They were a little short, but fit reasonably well otherwise. Without underclothes, they felt rough against his skin, but it was immensely better than the alternative. Shedding his cloak, he pulled the red t-shirt over his head, followed by the jumper, which was a bit snug, but serviceable. Finally, he pulled on one of the pairs of socks, bringing immediate relief to his frigid feet. Once clad in his new treasures, he returned to Hermione’s side and placed the cloak back over her to give her some additional warmth. It just felt like the right thing to do. If, or when, she woke up, he’d help her get into the jogging pants and gray t-shirt.

Since he’d found some helpful items in his first foray, he decided to continue exploring for other things that might be useful. He was hopeful that he might also find a clue or two about where they were, if not how they came to be here. He returned to the larger bedroom and opened the door that he hoped would lead to the closet. Having made the correct choice, he was disappointed to find nothing on the horizontal wooden bars but three hangers. Pushing the door a little further, he spied a small cardboard box, about two feet square, tucked into the closet’s corner.

When he lifted it out of the closet, he noted its hefty weight. He guessed that it probably contained books or papers of some sort. He set it down on the writing desk, and lifted the flaps to find albums of photographs – Muggle photographs. Deciding it was not likely to be a help, he returned the album he’d removed to the box and placed it on the floor to keep it out of the way. Since he was standing at the desk, now seemed as good a time as any to see if it held any useful clues.

The slim center drawer contained only a broken Muggle pencil; he’d seen Granger use one in Arithmancy class once. The drawer on the right had three small pieces of thin silvery metal, each twisted exactly the same way to resemble a double loop. He picked up one of them and examined it closely, having never seen anything quite like it. Draco couldn’t imagine what they were or how they’d be used, and dropped the item back into the drawer with a shrug. The drawer on the left contained nothing but a single small circle of some very stretchy material that felt a little like the thin leather thong his father used to tie up his hair.

On a whim, Draco dropped to his hands and knees and looked under the bed. In the very center of the bed, against the baseboard and well out of reach, he saw something that looked like bedroom slippers. The bed was far too massive to move alone. For all his magical skill, Draco had never been particularly adept at wandless magic. “An Accio would be immensely helpful about now,” he mumbled. With a huffed breath, he figured it couldn’t hurt to try. He concentrated all his attention on the footwear, pointed a finger and spoke the spell aloud. “Accio slippers.” Nothing. “Shake it off, boy. Try again,” was his attempt at self-encouragement. The second try was no more successful. “Once more; you can do it.” A true believer in the tenet “the third time’s the charm," Draco gave a last effort. To his great delight, the slippers moved - only about two inches, but it was enough for his long arms to make contact and drag them out from their hiding place. Now that he had the slippers in hand, it was clear they’d do him no good; they were sized for a petite lady. “Maybe Granger can use them if they’re not too small,” he thought.

Rising from his prone position on the floor, Draco eyed the last area of the room he hadn’t yet searched – the bathroom. The mirror seemed to be hanging off the wall at an odd angle, and he couldn’t understand how it hadn’t fallen off ages ago. Five steps into the room solved the mystery when the hanging mirror was revealed to be a hinged door for some kind of cabinet built right into the wall. “Hmm. Clever,” Draco thought, giving the Muggles a little credit for some ingenuity. There was nothing resembling a potion, though he did find a roll of gauze quite similar to what he’d seen Madame Pomfrey use numerous times at Hogwarts and by mediwitches on the battlefield. Draco suddenly shivered. “Where did that come from? When have I been on a battlefield?”

Draco’s breathing and heart rate sped together, and he had a bad feeling that his memory problems were more serious than the result of a night of drinking or a bump on the noggin. Something was seriously wrong; he was beginning to think his brain was like a wedge of Swiss cheese, soft and full of holes. “What in Merlin’s name is going on?” he queried, his internal voice sounding slightly panicked. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet when it seemed that his legs might no longer support his weight. Elbows on knees, Draco bent at the waist to rest his head in his hands. The headache he’d suffered earlier had diminished for a bit after his icy shower, but was now returning at full strength. The harder he tried to remember, the worse he felt. It was almost as if he’d been under a spell.

As that thought crossed his mind, Draco sat bolt upright. Could that be what was going on? Had he been hexed? It would certainly explain at least some of what had happened over the last several hours. If someone had Obliviated him, he’d likely have remembered even less, though. He had had odd little flashes that seemed like memories, but he just couldn’t be certain. He rejected Obliviation as the cause of his difficulties, but there were definitely other spells, hexes, curses, and potions that affected memory. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? It would also explain why he and Granger were out here by themselves without wands, clothes, or knowledge of what had happened. Maybe someone had dumped them here. Maybe he wasn’t really responsible for what had happened to her. He then wondered why it was so important to him that he not be the monster who had raped and nearly killed her. Did he have that much remorse over what he thought he’d done?

He shook his head once, sharply. “Just stop it, Draco. Thinking about this is getting you nowhere. Look for things that can help you now, and worry about the rest later.” Draco stood as his internal haranguing stopped. Moving back to the mirrored cabinet, he retrieved the roll of gauze along with a small cardboard box that was labeled “Band-Aids," which appeared to be smaller wound coverings. These items would almost certainly be useful. The bathroom gave up no additional discoveries, so he left the room, closing the door behind him.

He tossed the gauze and Band-Aids on the bed with the linens he’d found earlier, and decided to go check on Hermione before examining the sitting room and kitchen for other supplies. He returned to the other bedroom and was stunned to find that Granger had shifted her placement in his absence. She was curled around herself in a tight ball, best described as a fetal position. He knew that to be a position of comfort when one was ill, but was flabbergasted that she’d had the physical ability to move at all. Maybe she was going to recover, after all. She seemed to be sleeping very deeply for now, and he decided not to try to rouse her until he’d finished his reconnaissance of the house. There was no guarantee that she’d respond, in any case, so he left her to rest.

The sitting room was next on Draco’s agenda. He’d recalled seeing a table on either side of the sofa, and thought there’d been drawers in each. His memory proved correct as he rounded the corner into the sunlit room. In the table on his left, he found a thick book with what appeared to be hundreds of names each followed by series of numbers. While this meant nothing to him, there was the name of a town on the front cover. It said “Whitfield” and the word “Telephone." Realization dawned that this must be that communication thing he’d heard about in Muggle Studies class during fifth year. As he saw nothing that looked like a telephone, if he could even recall what one looked like, the book was basically useless once it had yielded the name of the town in which they were likely staying. He tossed it back into the drawer and slammed it shut, trying desperately to recall whatever he could about the town of Whitfield and where it was in relation to Wiltshire. Nothing came to mind; if he could only find a map, he’d be in much better stead. Sliding to the opposite side of the sofa, he opened the drawer in the other table and found a chess board, Muggle-style, but no chess pieces. Deeming that useless too, he returned the game to its original hiding place. From his position on the sofa, he noticed a small built-in cabinet on the wall next to the cold fireplace. At this moment, Draco began to regret not paying more attention in that Muggle Studies class. He could easily start a magical fire with his wand and warm this place up in no time. He had no clue where to start with this foreign object, other than knowing that he needed wood and flame. Somehow, he thought, that would only lead to disaster.

Deciding that the next search point had to be the cabinet, Draco pushed off the sofa and flipped the little wooden latch that kept the door closed. “Wood. It figures,” he observed with a snort. If Granger woke up, maybe he could ask her if she knew how to start it up. For the first time, Draco realized how often he thought about things that needed Granger’s input, help, or advice. Was he so pathetic that he had to rely on a Mudblood to get him out of a scrap? He was a wizard, for Merlin’s sake! And a pretty good one. “Until,” his inner voice screamed, “you lose your bloody wand, wanker!”

A search of the mantelpiece and hearth turned up nothing of interest, so Draco abandoned the sitting room in favor of the kitchen. He’d searched here earlier just enough to find the cloths and pot he’d used to wash Granger’s body, but hadn’t gone any further. He now went methodically from drawer to drawer, cabinet to cabinet, and laid out his finds on the kitchen table. He’d managed to locate one chipped stoneware mug, two small glass tumblers, two small plates, and an assortment of mismatched utensils and kitchen tools. He still had the pot upstairs, but that had contained human blood, so it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to use that for cooking, if they could even manage to find some food. They had no cooking surface that he could determine; the still-cold fireplace seemed the most likely candidate, and he was no closer to getting a fire started now than he had been an hour ago. Of course, he didn’t know anything about how a Muggle kitchen worked, so opportunity could be staring him in the face and he wouldn’t know it. But Granger would. “Fuck!” he swore, “I shouldn’t even think about relying on her. She might not be alive a few hours from now.”

Thinking he’d found everything he could in the rooms he’d searched, Draco decided to poke around outside the building for a few minutes. In his search for an exit, he found a door that led to a lower level. He thought that Muggles called them “basements” or “cellars.” In his house, it would have been a dungeon. As he tentatively descended the stairs, he wished again for his wand. “Needing a Lumos here,” he grumbled. The lower level was musty and dark, but not pitch black as there were a couple of small windows near the ceiling, or just under the floor level of the main house, he surmised. He picked along carefully, not wanting to tumble down the stairs or over something that just might be in his path. At the foot of the stairs he nearly tripped on something, and reached down to steady himself and to move the offending object out of his way. As he made contact, he exclaimed, “Jackpot!” when his hands fell upon a pair of heavy work boots. Abandoning his search for the moment, Draco raced back up the stairs with boots in hand and moved into the light to inspect them. They were very dirty, caked with mud in fact, and the soles had seen better days, but they were certainly going to be warmer than just a pair of cotton socks.

Living in a dungeon had taught him a thing or two, so he tipped the boots upside down and shook them out to be sure no creatures had taken up residence. When they appeared to be uninhabited, he slipped his feet into them and laced them up. They were a little snug, but Draco had always had pretty big feet in comparison to his schoolmates, and nearly all of his footwear had been hand-made. Still, this felt like a luxury in comparison to what he’d suffered the past several hours. A frisson of guilt coursed through him once again as he thought about the suffering someone else in this house had experienced at his hand. He really had nothing to complain about, he reluctantly admitted.

He felt better about returning down to the lower level now that his feet had some protection against the unknown, and he moved back down the stairs to continue his exploration. It really was too dark to see much detail, but he found a couple of cardboard boxes that he figured warranted further scrutiny. Neither was terribly heavy, so he piled one atop the other and brought them up to the kitchen to sort through the contents in better light. He was hoping for more clothing, or even linens.

The first box was a disappointment. It contained clothing, but items that would only fit a large doll or a very small child. Useless to him and Granger. The second box held better fare. There were two pairs of trainers; though Draco had never owned any, many of his friends at Hogwarts had, even among the pureblood wizards. They were apparently quite useful for athletic activities, and a good deal lighter than the dragonhide boots they all wore for Quidditch. One pair looked like it might fit a woman’s foot, so that would be a help. Under the trainers was a heavy, brown, cable knit sweater, and beneath that was a patchwork quilt. Deciding that he’d scavenged as much as he could for now, Draco carried the items he’d deemed useful to the bedroom where Granger was sleeping. It was about time to check on her, anyway.

As he pushed open the door, he heard Granger moan in pain. He closed his eyes and winced at the pitiful sound. When he opened his eyes once more to look down at Granger, he was astonished to find her eyes wide open and looking right back at him.


	7. Changes

_**Five Years and Seven Months Ago** _

Halloween was rapidly approaching, and the castle was abuzz with the plans that had been made to mark the most important night of the year in the Wizarding world. The grand feast that typically marked the holiday was the most lavish and extensive of the term, and there was always some very special activity to accompany the celebration. Everyone was gleefully awaiting the day’s festivities. Everyone except Draco Malfoy.

Never mistaken for having a warm personality, Draco had become increasingly surly and nasty as the first two months of the school year progressed. He snapped at his friends and practically tortured his enemies, and that list seemed to grow by the hour. While he’d always had a sarcastic wit, Draco was now positively acerbic, even toward his professors. His churlish attitude was more than once the topic of teachers’ conversations. “What’s happened to Malfoy this year?” was a common theme and few believed it to be typical teenage angst, the changes had been so dramatic.

Draco also noticed changes in himself, but accepted them as being a result of the horrible circumstances he’d been compelled to endure. He was certainly less tolerant and patient with the fools he was forced to suffer. He felt angry all the time and wanted nothing more than to erase the offending idiots from his company entirely. His hatred for the Mudbloods with whom he was obligated to interact grew at an exponential rate. He resented their very presence, and constantly and deliberately sought out more malicious ways to make his abhorrence known. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d just Avada the lot of them.

While other students gathered and enjoyed each other’s company, Draco sought out solitude. He spent long hours alone in dark corners of the library, in the recesses of the Astronomy Tower, or alone in his room with the draperies drawn around his bed and sound-dampening spells keeping the irritating noises of his bunkmates to the bare minimum. His only solace seemed to be the bliss he found in receiving letters and packages from his mother. Only those drew anything resembling a smile to his constantly sneering lips. He was always especially pleased when he got his hamper of sweets containing those incredible truffles. He invariably felt better after consuming one or two of those delightful bits of chocolate and nuts.

On this night when everyone else was preparing for celebration, Draco was reading his mother’s latest letter and enjoying a few of the treats she’d sent along. He’d always been curious about the goings-on at the Manor when he was away and Narcissa indulged his inquisitiveness with gossipy bits about which house-elf had annoyed Lucius by folding his socks incorrectly and who was expected to come to dinner for the next weekend. Draco was a bit confused, though, about her response to a request he’d made in his last letter home:

 

_Draco, darling, I’m so glad you’re enjoying the treats I’ve sent, but I’m afraid I’m at a loss. I don’t recall packaging anything in a silver box. Maybe one of the house-elves took it upon himself to decorate your little gifts a bit. I’ll make sure that more are sent, since you’re so fond of them. Do make sure that you eat something other than chocolates, dear. Protein is very important for a growing young man. Take care, and write back soon._

_Your loving mother_

Draco thought nothing more of it, since the item he’d virtually demanded was sitting atop the pile of goodies in the hamper that had arrived from Malfoy Manor just this afternoon.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Did you have any difficulty getting the package into Draco’s hamper?” Rodolphus needled.

“No more than the last six times, dearest,” came Bella’s sarcastic reply.

“So do you think the potions have fully taken effect yet? And the spell?”

“I can’t imagine that they haven’t. It’s been almost eight weeks, so that’s more than enough time for the potions to take hold. The spell is activated by untying the bow. The potions are contained within the confection, and the layer of addictive that we added most certainly has kept Draco happily craving our little sweets. I don’t see a problem,” Bella reassured her husband. “As long as we keep that little house-elf under our control, Draco will keep getting the truffles and it will be easier and easier to control his actions and even his thinking. It was sheer genius to attach the suggestion spells to the bow. Every time he opens a new box, we can install a new compulsion. You are so clever, husband!”

“Thank you, love. So what should we include next time, hmmm?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa walked through the open door of her husband’s study, a worried frown marring her delicate features. “Lucius, did you read Draco’s last letter?”

“Was it addressed to me?”

“No, to me.”

“Well, then, there’s your answer. I don’t read your post any more than you read mine,” Lucius teased.

“I think you should read this one.” Narcissa held out the piece of parchment for her husband to take.

Reaching over his massive oak desk, the senior Malfoy grasped the letter that his wife was so intent that he see. He donned the reading spectacles that only his wife and son ever saw, scanned quickly from top to bottom, and handed the document back.

“What’s the problem? Sounds like a typical teenager to me,” Lucius goaded.

Narcissa gaped at him in stunned anger. “What’s the problem? This does not sound like my son! He’s complaining about everything, and he seems angry and resentful over minor annoyances. Draco has always been a bit… entitled, but he’s never been this rude and ungrateful. He’s changed, and not for the better.”

“Cissy, relax. He’s a teenager, he’s dealing with hormones going haywire, and he’s developing his own sense of independent thought and opinions. Nothing unusual at all. I happen to think he’s doing just fine. Stop fussing like a mother hen,” he chided with a smirk.

“Don’t dismiss this so easily, Lucius. I’m telling you something is wrong,” she replied, her voice quavering with restrained tears. She turned her back to her husband so that he wouldn’t see her upset.

Lucius rose from his seat and made his way around the desk, placing his hands on Narcissa’s shoulders in an attempt to mollify her. “I know you miss him, dear. But he’ll be an adult soon, and he needs to start acting like one. You can’t keep him in knee pants forever, you know.”

His faintly amused tone made her that much more irritated with him, and Narcissa was not one to hold back her opinion, regardless of the “place” of the pureblood wife as subservient to her husband. “It seems that your definition of adult behavior and mine are at odds, Lucius. Scoff all you want, but mark my words. There is something very wrong, and it’s getting worse, not better.” With that, she shrugged off his touch and stalked from the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Halloween Feast was now upon them, and Draco was feeling uncharacteristically euphoric. He’d not consumed any of the firewhisky that was making the rounds of the Slytherin common room, but by his behavior, he might as well have drunk the whole bottle alone. He was feeling utterly and completely invincible – like nothing could possibly go wrong - in sharp contrast to the morose mood he’d found himself in just this morning. He had absolutely no intention of participating in the juvenile behavior that was a sorry excuse for celebration in the Great Hall. He had other ideas about how to mark the auspicious occasion of All Hallow’s Eve.

Draco Malfoy planned to raise a little hell tonight. He would show the Mudbloods and blood traitors that this night belonged to real wizards and witches, not these sodding pretenders who were trying to fundamentally change the way purebloods had lived for centuries. He’d send a message that no one could miss, and if he could ruffle the feathers of a Gryffindor or two in the process, all the better. With wand firmly tucked into the pocket in his robes, and a small pouch containing the other tools he’d need to complete his mischief tucked into the waistband of his trousers, he sneaked out of the common room while his housemates were reveling in their childish merriment.

The Astronomy Tower was his destination, and he had about forty minutes to waste before the rest of the students would gather in the Great Hall for the feast, which was to be followed by a costume ball for upperclassmen. He had no intention of attending either event, and did not particularly care if his absence was noticed. That feeling of invincibility extended to not really worrying whether his responsibility for the deeds he planned to commit was discovered. If they wanted to expel him, so be it. He had better things to do with his time than be forced into the pretense of tolerance for coddled Mudbloods and blood traitors.

Draco had already determined what he’d do and how he’d do it. Just as the costume ball was ending, the revelers were expected to gather in the courtyard to watch a magical fireworks display. He’d treat them to a display of his own. Draco had always been a little more intelligent than he’d let on, and his carefully cultivated reputation as an indolent aristocrat effectively hid his sharp intellect and highly inquisitive nature. His knowledge of magical sciences, including Arithmancy, Potions, Ancient Runes, Magical Theory, and Astronomy, far surpassed that of nearly every one of his peers, with the possible exception of the always-insufferable Mudblood, Granger. He would use that knowledge to accomplish his operation.

His first priority was to prepare the equipment in the Tower. The high-powered telescope would be converted from its usual purpose in seeking out stars and planets to become a projector of sorts. It was a simple matter of reversing the enormous internal lens, which he would do with a quick flick of his wand. He’d practiced a dry run with one of the smaller telescopes reserved for student lessons and study, and it had worked perfectly, as he expected. His calculations for range, size and definition of the images he’d display had been exact. Timing was the only element he’d been unable to rehearse, but he’d been confident that he could manage that on the fly.

Next was ensuring that his message was prepared and ready. He’d determined that the best way to ensure speed, accuracy, and clarity in the magical projection was to inscribe the characters and images onto a perfect, flat crystal. He’d easily secured an appropriate piece from Scrivenshaft’s on the pretense of needing a weight to secure the parchments on his desk, and simply transfigured its shape and size to meet his needs. He’d also purchased a new diamond-tipped quill, certainly not his first, to ensure crisp and clear transcription, and finally a platinum-infused ink that would allow his projection to easily be viewed against the night sky. It was undoubtedly convenient to have unlimited access to funds and a running tab at nearly every shop in Hogsmeade. Once the message was transferred to the crystal, it was a simple matter of inserting it in front of the reversed lens.

The message had been completed for three days. Draco liked to be prepared, even in making mischief. This mischief was a political statement, however, and his inner bravado deemed that he would defend his rights as a pureblood wizard, or die trying. Now, all that was left was the waiting for exactly the right moment to let this gathering of fools know that he and his compatriots would not allow the rabble to dilute their power. As he silently bided his time in the Astronomy Tower, Draco allowed himself to seethe and rant against the perceived injustices perpetrated upon him and his kind. His anger and resentment had built and grown until he had worked himself into a fever pitch waiting for the cloying sounds of laughter and merriment that would be his signal to begin.

Though the delay seemed eternal, the time finally came when he heard the sounds of the gathering throng in the courtyard one hundred meters below him. He heard Professor Dumbledore’s Sonorus spell followed by the charm to initiate the colossal and stunning magical fireworks display that everyone expected. Draco was ready. He allowed the first thirty seconds to pass without interference, hearing the “oohs” and “ahs” of delight from the elated spectators. Then, with a flick of his wand and his spoken Evanesco, the colorful and dynamic display vanished. He quickly added a blanketing spell to shroud the night sky in total blackness, now hearing confused exclamations from below. Waiting ten more seconds – purely for dramatic effect – Draco unleashed his venom on the unsuspecting crowd. They looked up into the sky to see the message he’d etched onto the crystal with diamond tip in platinum ink: _"We are here among you. Mudbloods and traitors will die."_ He spoke his final charm for the evening - Morsmordre - and laughed as he heard shrieks of horror at seeing the Dark Lord’s Mark displayed in the sky over Hogwarts carried on the night’s light breeze. Regardless of Draco’s earlier internal diatribe about his willingness to “die trying," he still retained a powerful streak of self-preservation, and he quickly vacated the Tower before anyone had time to reach him from their spot so far below. He returned to his room, drew the draperies around his bed, and treated himself to a heavenly dark chocolate truffle as his reward for a mission accomplished.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Professors Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick gathered in the Headmaster’s office after having banished the offensive communiqué. A search of the Astronomy Tower had discovered the alterations made to the telescope, which were quickly put to rights. While no other evidence had been found, the assembled group had little doubt as to the perpetrator of this evening’s misdeed.

“Draco.”

“Undoubtedly, Severus,” came the Headmaster’s weary reply. “He was the only upperclassman not present at tonight’s ball except for Mister Finnigan, who was still in the infirmary recovering from that little potions accident. And none of the students in the lower years have the skills to perpetrate such a sophisticated feat.”

“What are we to do about him, Albus?” Minerva McGonagall fretted. “He’s become nearly unmanageable in the last few weeks. I’ve given him three detentions this week alone for his misbehavior.”

Professor Flitwick nodded vigorously in agreement. “He’s completing his schoolwork at a barely acceptable level, but there’s definitely something more consequential amiss. Severus, what insight do you have into what’s going on with him?”

“Not very much, I’m sorry to say. Lucius has been silent on the status of his son, except to say that he’s pleased Draco is showing more independence from his mother. His aunt Bellatrix asked after him recently, which is a bit unusual. I’ve not spoken with Narcissa recently, but maybe it’s time I do.”

“I’d prefer not to expel him, Severus, but his antagonistic actions are getting more dramatic and much harder to dismiss as teenage pranks. The Dark Mark is not child’s play, and I believed that only those who bear the mark can conjure it for display. When other parents hear about this – as you can be certain they will – they’ll demand some action, regardless of what we do in the name of protecting young Mister Malfoy. I’m not sure that he’s not already lost to us completely,” Albus Dumbledore concluded sadly.

“I’m certain that Draco has not yet taken the mark, sir, but there are ways that it can be channeled through other sources. That means that it’s very likely he’s being controlled by someone who is a full-fledged Death Eater. I will check him for the Imperius spell at the next opportunity,” Snape offered.

“Very well. In the meantime, we must all be vigilant for additional changes in his behavior and do what we can to minimize any damage he may inflict on himself or on other students. He is still just a boy; I’m not willing to give up on him just yet.” Dumbledore nodded to each of his colleagues, and wished them all a good evening.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Bella! He did it!” Rodolphus shouted from his study.

She came hurtling around the corner, skirts lifted to prevent tripping, and a manic grin creasing her face. “He did? How did you hear?”

“Crabbe called over the Floo. His son witnessed everything and owled him a description of the evening’s excitement. He reported that there are more than a few of the older students in Slytherin who are sympathetic to the Dark Lord, and they are quite pleased with the latest turn of events. Draco is apparently being a bit sullen, refusing to participate in the celebrations, but he's now well-positioned to be our eyes and ears within the castle."

“While I am pleased with these developments, Rod, I do have one concern. What if that meddler, Dumbledore, decides to expel him? I’m afraid we didn’t think that through sufficiently. We need to create a contingency plan for that possibility. We’ve got some work to do,” Bella admonished.

“Not to worry, dearest, I have a couple of ideas already in mind. Draco will be well-used, no matter where he happens to be.”


	8. Fear

Abject fear. That was what Draco saw in her eyes. Not that he blamed her – he was certain he’d be feeling the same thing in her place, awakening in a strange location with her would-be killer looming over her. He froze in his tracks, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but words seemed to fail him at the moment. His jaw worked up and down like some demented marionette, producing no sound.

She hadn’t moved, just kept staring. She hadn’t made a sound either. No scream, no shout, nothing. Had his hands around her neck removed that ability from her, Draco wondered? For the thousandth time, he'd asked a question which had no answer.

Finally shaken from his paralysis, Draco slowly set his burdens on top of the small desk, and raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, Granger,” he rasped, barely above a whisper. “I promise. I know you have no reason to trust me, and lots of reasons not to, but I swear on Merlin’s wand, I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”

Hermione’s response was to cringe away with the little strength she possessed, her eyes filling with tears. She tried to speak, and achieved little more than a croak, though he was quite certain she’d tried to say “No!”

He made a move to retrieve the jogging pants and t-shirt he’d set aside for her, and in her terrified state, she interpreted it as a further threat, flinching again and letting out as much of a shriek as she was able to produce. “No, Granger, no. It’s okay. I found some clothes for you. I just want to help you get warm.” He reached slowly for the items, again displaying his upraised hands in a gesture to calm her. “See? Right here.” He nodded to the fabric just out of his reach, flicking his eyes briefly toward the pile, then back to meet hers. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

His thoughts were whirring while trying to keep her from killing herself with panic. His thoughts came rapidly. _She’s never going to believe me. Why should she? All she knows is that the last time she was awake, I was trying to kill her. I raped her nearly to death. Of course she’s terrified. How do I explain this when I don’t know anything either? But I’ve got to try, or neither of us will get out of here._

“Look, Granger. I woke up a few hours ago, and I don’t know how we got here or what happened. There’s some pretty horrible evidence that indicates I was responsible for what happened to you. I can’t remember anything from the last few days – nothing at all. And my memory for what happened before that is like Swiss cheese. I know we’ve never got along, but I don’t hate you this much. I swear. I don’t,” Draco implored her to believe him. He continued, “I cleaned you up as best I could and put you on the bed. I know you’re hurt, and I’d like to help you, but I can’t find my wand, and yours is missing too. I’m starting to think somebody may have dumped us here.”

A respondent flicker in her eyes told him that he might have been on the right track. Granger still hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. It was fairly likely that she was still unable to do either. When he tentatively met her wide-eyed stare, Draco still saw fear but it was now laced with pain as she became more alert and aware of her surroundings. The immediate adrenalin rush had ended, and the true extent of her injuries would now become apparent to her. It was also pretty clear that she probably didn’t believe his claim of ignorance. He decided to confront this head-on. “Granger, I can see that you don’t believe me, and that’s fine. I understand. The only thing I can do is show you by my actions that I’m being as honest as I can be. Let me help you. All I want to do is get you into something warmer so you don’t freeze to death. It’s March, and it’s damned cold. You’re hurt enough as it is without compounding the problem with hypothermia. Please, let me help you.”

Draco could see that she was calming ever so slightly as he spoke, so he thought if he kept it up, it might pacify her further. “I’m just going to reach over here and pick up the jogging pants, shirt, and a pair of socks for you, okay?” he practically cooed. Moving slowly and deliberately, he did exactly as promised. “Now, I’m going to come over to the bed and I’m going to help you put these on.”

Unsurprisingly, Hermione’s reaction to this was not happiness. Draco saw her eyes first widen in fear then narrow in trepidation. “I know, you don’t want to me touch you, and you’re naked under there. Here’s the thing, Granger. We’re both grown-ups and neither of us has anything that the other hasn’t seen before. I also cleaned you up before, so I’ve already seen it all. That may sound a bit crude, but my only desire here is to get you into something warmer than a thin blanket and my old cloak. You won’t get better if you can’t stay warm. Please, just let me do this without fighting.”

Hermione’s big brown eyes, red-rimmed, bruised, and watery, blinked once in assent. She tried to speak, but couldn’t verbalize her words aloud. The squawk she made was understood, however. “Waah.” Draco knew she was asking “Why?”

“Why, what, Granger? Why did I ra… Why did I hurt you before? I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I didn’t do it. I may be a rat bastard and a cruel sod, but I didn’t think I had it in me to be a rapist. There, I said it. I’m confused, and as I told you earlier, I honestly – Wizard’s oath – don’t remember doing it. Why do I want to help you now? I think that’s an even harder question to answer, Granger. Can’t you just accept it on face value for now? We’ll figure out the rest as we go along. I’m not asking for your forgiveness now, because I probably don’t deserve it, but let’s just get the both of us out of here, okay?” Draco pleaded.

He backed away from the bed, just a step, to allow her to make a decision. Giving her some power in this venture would probably not be a bad idea, he guessed. Draco’s eyes met Hermione’s and he waited for her reply. Her gaze flicked between him and the clothes in his arms, and she seemed to weigh his words and her situation. She sucked in a breath, and tipped her head just enough to constitute a nod of agreement.

Draco sighed in relief and sought to reassure her one more time. “Okay. Good. I’m coming to the bed now, and I’m going to remove the cloak and blanket. I don’t think you should move, so let me do all the work. Just try to relax, okay?” With that, he moved slightly closer and tried not to notice her flinch as he lifted the blanket away from her body.

Running commentary might work – keep her a little distracted from what I’m doing, he thought, and launched into a play-by-play of each move, each action before he took it. “Here we go. I’m removing the blanket. Now let’s get the pants on first. I’m guessing they’ll be a little big for you, but I thought they would fit better than the jeans. Yeah, I found these too,” he commented as he indicated the faded blue denim he was wearing. “I don’t think I told you before, but I was also, umm, unclothed when I woke up. The only thing I could find that clearly belonged to either one of us was my cloak, which I used to cover you. That’s one of the reasons that I was thinking that there’s a little more to the story than just you and me ending up alone in this godforsaken place.”

Draco had moved further down the bed to have access to Hermione’s feet and legs. He hesitated briefly before touching her ankle. Looking only at her face for the moment, he asked her permission to proceed. “I’ll need to move your feet a little bit to get these things on you. Is it okay if I shift your leg to do that?” Getting a squeaking “Ya,” in reply, he bunched up each leg of the jogging pants in turn, and carefully pulled them in turn over each foot. Kneeling on the bed on her right side, he slowly tugged them up by the gathered elastic waistband, concentrating intently on minimizing how much he moved her and how much incidental touching he could avoid. He didn’t need her to start freaking out on him now that he’d made some progress. “Okay, that’s good,” he encouraged. “Almost done. I’ll just need to shift your hips over a little to get these all the way up.” He reached over to grasp her left hip in an attempt to get the fleece fabric over the last hurdle, and that’s when their tentative peace shattered.

“Ahhh. Ahhh. Ahhh,” Hermione wailed.

Draco leapt back from the bed, hands away from her body in an instant. “What? What? I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” He moved around to the other side of the bed and saw the reason for Hermione’s pained howls. Since he’d placed her in the bed, she’d developed an enormous livid bruise on her left hip that matched exactly to a man’s handprint. As he glanced over her body, he noticed that there were black and blue marks emerging all over her torso, arms and upper thighs as well. He’d hurt her again by touching an area that he’d obviously injured hours earlier.

“Oh Merlin,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Granger. I didn’t see that bruise. I’m so sorry.” Draco’s voice sounded choked and halting, his sincerity unmistakable even to the desperately pained woman writhing on the tiny bed as much as her injuries allowed. He darted from the room into the adjacent bath, shuddering in disgust at himself, both for what he’d done and for his weakness in letting his own distress be on display for Hermione to see.

He leaned with his back against the door he’d slammed shut, breathing rapidly, and shoulders rising and falling with the effort. An insidious internal voice scolded him, “Weakling! What do you care? Go in there and finish her off. Get rid of the damned Mudblood. She’s of no use to anyone. Take her again. Kill her now!” He shook violently with the extreme effort of resisting the urge to listen to the voice, to comply with its demands. His headache, which had ebbed and flowed throughout the morning, came back once again with a vengeance, threatening to blind him with its intensity.

“No!” he roared, not entirely sure what he was denying. With Hermione not even half-dressed on the other side of the door, the depth of his struggle and the horrible ache behind his eyes became too much to bear. Draco passed out cold on the floor, giving in to the bliss of oblivion.

Hermione, still moaning in pain, heard his single cry and then the sickening thud as his body hit the floor. She could scarcely move a single muscle, let alone finish dressing herself. It was evident that he’d either been attacked or somehow hurt himself. Either way, she was thoroughly unable to help him or herself. She began to hope that death would come quickly, maybe for both of them. With that thought, she too succumbed to nothingness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco was first to rejoin the land of the living, though he wasn’t so sure that he’d cared to. He’d clipped the side of his head on the sink as he fell, and now had a lump on his temple to add to the pounding in his brain. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but when he’d pried open the door to peer into the bedroom, it was clear that the sun was much lower in the sky than it had been while he’d tried to get Granger dressed. “Granger!” he exclaimed, seeing her half-naked body in the same position he’d left her hours earlier. She seemed to be unconscious again, not at all responsive to his shout.

“Damn.” He took three long strides to reach her bedside and looked down at her still form. Scanning from head to toe, it appeared that she hadn’t moved an inch since he’d run from her in a panic when he’d inadvertently caused her additional pain. He was alarmed to find that there was a small stain of blood on the bed near the juncture of her thighs. She’d apparently re-opened a wound, or was bleeding from inside. He felt his face flush red at the thought. He didn’t know what to do for her, but she’d made it this far and he didn’t want her to die now; he knew that much. If she was to survive, she needed to be an active participant in her recovery, at least by virtue of sharing knowledge. He’d have to awaken her by whatever means he could.

He started with calling her name, in progressive degrees of volume. “Granger. Granger. Granger!” He even resorted to something that would have been unthinkable at most points in their acquaintance. “Hermione. Hermione!” That just didn’t feel right, and she didn’t respond to either name anyway. He knew she was alive; he could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He tried rousing her with a shake of her foot, then her knee, next her arm, and finally a touch of her cheek. Of all the ways that he had touched her in the last several hours, that had felt far too intimate, and he pulled away quickly, still unsuccessful in his mission.

He was at a loss for what to do next, when the impish child who still lived somewhere within him needled him to toss a bucket of water on her head. He snorted aloud in amusement, then felt terrible at finding something funny in such a serious situation. But it did give him an idea.

He returned to the bathroom and soaked one of the bath towels he’d found in the dresser in cold water. He rang it out so that it wasn’t dripping, and brought it to the bed. He started at her hands, bathing her once again in cool water. His touch was gentle but firm; his goal, after all, was to rouse her, not to soothe her. He moved the wet cloth over her arms, neck, and chest, allowing it to drape over her breasts briefly. Finally, when he could no longer avoid it, he washed her face. Watching her intently, he looked for any signs of awareness, and was rewarded a few moments later when he saw her eyelids begin to flutter.

“Herm… Granger. Granger, please wake up.”

“Ohhhh,” she managed to moan. “Naugh dree.”

“No, Granger, I’m sorry. This is not a dream. It’s a lot closer to a nightmare, but we’re both very much awake. You passed out again, and I, uh, sort of did too. We both need to stay awake for a little while if we’re going to get out of this alive. And I’m going to need your help to get you into better shape.”

Hermione nodded once in acknowledgment. “Coh,” she struggled out.

“You’re cold?” Draco confirmed. At her blink, he reached for the cloak to drape over her and said, “Okay, I’ll cover you up for a moment, but I need to be really blunt with you, Granger. I need you to tell me what to do somehow. You’re, uh, bleeding from your, uh, personal place and we need to stop it.”

At her look of confusion at his hesitant terminology, Draco groaned. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” he mumbled to himself.

“Your vagina, Granger. It’s bleeding. I know it’s my fault, but what can I do to make it stop?” Draco had never been so red in his life, guilt, shame, and humiliation warring within him for prominent display on his face.

“Hurrs,” she mumbled in confirmation.

“I’m sure it does. So what can I do to help? I don’t have a lot to work with here, but I’ve got some gauze, something called Band-Aids, towels and a set of sheets. Is there something I can do with any of that?”

Hermione seemed to hesitate for a moment, considering what he’d told her. She looked up at him with a great deal of trepidation, but nodded once. “Wot,” she grated out, and managed to lift her hand in the direction of her mouth.

Draco interpreted her request. “Water? Are you thirsty?” When she confirmed with another nod, he hopped to his feet. “That I can handle. Water coming up.” He moved quickly to the kitchen, immediately regretting his haste when his sore head protested. He grabbed one of the glasses he’d left on the table, and swished it under the running faucet for a moment to rid it of as much dust as he could. He then filled the glass and returned to Hermione’s bedside. He held the glass out to her, but she didn’t seem to have the strength or ability to reach out and grasp it. With a roll of his eyes that was slightly more amused than annoyed, Draco held the glass to her lips. “I’ll help you, but don’t get used to it. Eventually you’ll need to do this for yourself, you know.”

She sipped slowly, but deeply, peering over the rim of the glass in wary disbelief that he was actually helping her after everything he had done to harm her so thoroughly. When Draco saw that she had taken her fill, he removed the glass and set it on the floor beside the bed. “Better?” he asked.

“Ya,” was all she could manage in reply.

“Good. Now we need to get your other, uh, problem taken care of. You have an idea about what to do?” Draco waited for her to try to express what she wanted.

“Coh,” was what Draco heard.

“You’re cold? You want the jumper put on under the cloak?” His eyes flicked over to the desk, falling upon the thick cable knit he’d found in the basement.

“Nnn.” She made a slight move side to side with her head.

“No? Not the jumper?” Draco was confused.

“Swe swell,” she struggled mightily to form the “ell” sound.

“Swell? Oh! Swelling. You want something cold to help with the swelling?” he confirmed as understanding dawned.

“Ya,” she verified.

“Will a cold compress do? We don’t have any ice. What if I soak a piece of this towel in cold water and wring it out, then put it, uh, there?” Draco’s eyes drifted to her crotch for the briefest of moments.

“Ho thin.”

“You want me to soak the whole towel,” he indicated, understanding her request. Not quite comprehending the reason for using the whole towel, Draco just shrugged, but rose to return to the bathroom to accomplish part one of his task.

When he returned with the cloth, intent on placing it between her legs in as much of an “all-business” fashion as he could muster, she stopped him with a barely raised hand and the vocalization, “Ro.”

“Ro?” he thought for a half a second and got it. “Oh – roll it. Sure.” He rolled the towel along its shorter edge, making a compact package. He hesitated once more before speaking. “I think it would be easier to put it in place if the jogging pants were out of the way. They’re keeping your knees together and I can’t maneuver this around them. I’ll pull them back up after.”

At her look of horror, he raised a hand to placate her. “Don’t worry, now that I know about your bruises I’ll be extra careful and we’ll get you clothed. I’ll help you put the t-shirt and jumper on too, and there’s a pair of socks for your feet. Let’s just get the compress in place first, then we’ll get everything else handled, okay?”

She nodded once in agreement, and Draco carefully pulled the fleece pants below her knees. He decided that the constant chatter he’d used earlier had actually been helpful in keeping her from becoming too upset, so he kept up his prattling as he worked. “I’m going to have to raise one of your knees. It will probably be better to lift the right one, yeah?” He looked at her face for agreement, and seeing it, gently placed his left hand in the crook behind her knee, opening her to his view. “I’m sorry. I know this is embarrassing – for both of us – but for the moment, just think of me as ‘Healer Draco’ and we’ll get through this without too much fuss, right?” He shifted the rolled, wet towel into position between her legs, and immediately understood why she’d wanted the whole thing. Her entire vulvar region was red and swollen – worse than they’d been earlier - as were her inner thighs. The large towel would provide some relief for the whole area, he hoped. He tried not to inspect too closely so that her humiliation would be lessened, but he had to ask. “Granger, what about the bleeding, uh, inside? Shouldn’t we do something about that too?” he questioned.

“Nnn. Swe fursss,” she answered, shaking her head once. “This hep too.”

Draco shrugged and accepted her decision. “Okay. Whatever you say. How about we get you re-dressed now? The jogging pants might even help keep the towel in place. They might get damp, but I’ve found another quilt so we can use that to keep you warm if we need to let the pants dry out for a while. Does that sound okay?” He met her eyes again for agreement.

Hermione nodded her consent and Draco moved closer to restart the laborious process of getting her clothed. A tiny degree of trust had been established as he’d tended to her needs in the last several minutes, and she relaxed her limbs a bit, allowing him to more easily move the fabric up over her knees, thighs, hips, and finally settling it in place at her waist. The pants were definitely too large, but that was probably a good thing, given the current circumstances, and a drawstring helped in securing them at her midsection. Next, Draco reached over her to lift the gray t-shirt from the back of the chair where he’d abandoned it hours earlier. She assisted him minimally by trying to lift her arms as he slipped the garment over her head. She shuddered briefly when his body briefly came into contact with her still-naked chest. He pulled away swiftly, apologizing with a glance. “Awkward” didn’t come close in description. Draco then offered her the heavy brown jumper. “Do you want this too?” he asked. At her nod, he bunched up the garment’s bottom and positioned it above her head, dragging it down when she indicated she was ready. He lifted her hair out from under the neckline. “Now it’s just the socks. Do you want those?”

Her “Ya” was comparatively enthusiastic, and he pulled the pair over her tiny feet. He remembered the slippers and trainers he’d found, but didn’t think she’d be using them for a while yet. “I’ve got a couple of options of footwear for you when you’re feeling up to moving around. It’s probably best that you rest a bit, and then we can figure out what you want me to do next. I’m going to take a look outside to see if there’s anything that will tell me something more about where we are or maybe lead me to some food. I’m hoping that if you rest your throat a little, you’ll be able to speak and help shed some light on what happened here. I’ll be back in an hour; get some rest.”

With that, Draco exited the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Hermione to contemplate what he’d done for her after what he’d done to her. It wasn’t very long, though, before sleep claimed her once again.


	9. Fallout

The fallout from Draco’s Halloween stunt had been significant. New restrictions had been placed on both individual transit through the castle and on group gatherings to minimize the likelihood of repeat performances or unwanted incitement. Worried parents had insisted on cancelling all off-site activities including the three planned Hogsmeade weekends, and Ministry Aurors had been called in to inspect every inch of the castle for security breaches and vulnerabilities. A handful of students, notably all of Muggle-born descent, had withdrawn from Hogwarts in the face of such a blatant threat.

Professor Dumbledore had been unable to secure concrete, absolute evidence of Draco’s responsibility, but that had also not absolved the young wizard of suspicion. The quintessential Slytherin had been thorough in ensuring that no tangible proof could link him to the event. No magical signature, no traceable scrap, no eyewitness account could place him at the scene. The only evidence was purely circumstantial. It seemed that Draco’s bravado did indeed have its limits, and he’d gone to extreme measures to hide his involvement. Under intense questioning from his Head of House and his headmaster, the surly teenager had remained uncharacteristically silent. Even under the skilled Legilimency of Severus Snape, he had not given any clues to what he’d done, what influences he might have been under, or whether he’d been the victim of the Imperius curse. The boy’s mind was like a brick encampment.

When Draco’s parents had been contacted about his suspected role in the terror attack on Hogwarts, his mother had been adamant and steely in her resolve that her boy could not, would not have done such a thing. She wove stories of the sweet, loving child he’d always been and the warm and sensitive heart that he displayed to her. She relented slightly as she admitted that he’d been experiencing the normal growing pains that a teenage boy endured as he found his way to manhood, but she’d gone no further in expressing concern for his character or his behavior. His father was, sadly, she’d said, away on an extended business trip throughout Europe and Asia and could not be easily reached until his expected return just before Yule.

The result of this lack of proof was that Draco was allowed to remain at Hogwarts, but his daily actions and contacts remained under strict scrutiny. His owl post and packages were randomly inspected, and he was subjected to periodic “interviews” with either Snape or Dumbledore. It was a testament to the dark skill and devious diligence of his determined aunt and uncle that no incriminating or suspicious materials were found in any of the packages that Draco received seven times during this period of inquiry.

All of this attention meant that Draco’s penchant to act out was dramatically curtailed. His misdeeds were limited to sneering, snarling, sniping, and intense staring at those he deemed beneath him, which meant just about everyone in the entire castle.

Nearly seven weeks had passed, and Draco’s anger and frustration were mounting. He felt as though he’d been bound by Petrificus Totalus and Silencio – at the same time – for half his life. This had been the longest two-month hell he’d ever had to endure, and his boiling point had been reached more than once. On this particularly infuriating day, the only thing that had kept him from using the Killing curse on everything living thing around him was the knowledge that he’d be going home in just two more days, and he was eagerly anticipating a conversation with his father about his future.

This ordinary Wednesday had dawned especially bright and crisp, and that was not in keeping with young Mr. Malfoy’s mood, which was unambiguously dour and dark. A double Potions lab was to follow breakfast, and while the subject was normally among Draco’s favorites, he’d developed some animosity toward his Potions professor for the constant questioning and meddling since his Astronomy Tower adventure. He’d thought that Snape was an ally in the Dark Lord’s cause; was the Potions master now being forced to do Dumbledore’s bidding, or had his allegiances shifted? Draco didn’t know if he could trust the man, so he erred on the side of caution and self-preservation, and treated him as an enemy. An added irritation was the unavoidable presence of the gaggle of Gryffindors who would make his misery complete. If he had to listen to that swot, Granger, spout her two knuts’ worth one more time… Well, he didn’t know if he could control his murderous impulses today.

The potion they’d been assigned to brew today was one that would determine a full quarter of their grade for the term. It was complex and notoriously unstable, and had to be brewed quickly – in just the two hours allotted during their lab session – to be both effective and to limit the likelihood of creating an environmental disaster. Ironically, when brewed correctly, the potion was a simple topical application for eliminating unwanted hair - the girls used it regularly on their legs with no ill effects. Draco didn’t particularly care; his assigned lab partner for the day, however, was positively manic about delivering perfection. He’d barely been able to control his urge to vomit when Snape had designated the bane of his existence to take the place beside him at the lab bench. Hermione Granger wasn’t any happier about it.

Powdered Peruvian Vipertooth dragon scales – exactly 4.29 milligrams, one sliced Screechsnap – precisely cut with a solid silver knife into quarters at a twenty-eight degree angle, two minced Erumpent eyes, seven hairs from a full-blood Kneazle (absolutely no cat genes present, please), and thirty-eight milliliters of purified water were required to brew this concoction. It would take exactly seventy-nine minutes to simmer and twelve minutes to cool before it could be stored in a vial for Professor Snape’s evaluation. That left twenty-nine minutes to gather, prepare and add the ingredients in the proper order and procedure – barely enough to get everything done, considering the level of precision that was required - and Malfoy hadn’t moved a single muscle except the one that twitched rapidly in his jaw. He was studiously ignoring his lab partner, refusing to make eye contact or to acknowledge her questions and requests for him to get his arse in gear.

“Malfoy!” he heard her sotto voce shriek. “This is not funny. One of us needs to gather the ingredients and the other needs to prepare the cauldron and the rest of the cutting and crushing equipment. If you won’t cooperate, we’re both going to fail!” she spat through clenched teeth, hysteria barely restrained from Hermione’s plea.

“Fucking Mudblood,” he mumbled back, still not moving, not responding to her entreaties for assistance in any way.

“You loathsome rat!” she retorted. Unfortunately for her, and much to Draco’s amusement, Hermione’s outburst was significantly more audible than his expletive directed at her. This brought Professor Snape to their table, cloak billowing behind him as he moved swiftly to diffuse a potentially explosive altercation.

“Miss Granger, ten points from Gryffindor for raising your voice in class. Now, what seems to be the problem here?” Snape drawled.

“Sir, I hate to be a tattler, but Malfoy won’t cooperate in getting this potion brewed, and there simply isn’t enough time to do it all myself,” Hermione whined, an edge of desperation evident in her voice.

The Potions master glanced briefly at his Slytherin charge and raised an eyebrow in question. “Mister Malfoy, what do you have to say to that?”

Draco refused to meet his professor’s eyes, and stared at a point on the wall. “Filthy fucking Mudblood. I won’t work with her. I’d rather take the failing grade,” he seethed in barely restrained fury.

“You will work with her, Mister Malfoy, or the failing grade will not be your only problem. That is the assignment I’ve chosen to give you. Are you questioning my authority in my own classroom?”

“I won’t work with a fucking Mudblood.” Draco punctuated each word with a pointed finger seemingly drilling into the top of the lab bench, meeting Snape’s eyes with his own narrowed gaze.

“Then I’m afraid that you leave me no choice. Fifty points from Slytherin for refusing a teacher’s assignment and for using profanity in class, a failing grade on this potion, and I’ll see you for detention for the next two nights, Malfoy. Do I make myself clear?” Snape glared angrily at the blond for defying him so openly.

“Fine. As long as I don’t have to work with the fucking Mudblood.” Draco almost seemed relieved at the punishment Snape had levied.

“Miss Granger, you will be allowed an additional fifteen minutes beyond the end of class to complete your assignment. Don’t waste time; get to work.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Hermione replied, huffing a relieved breath.. She left the bench to gather the required ingredients from the storeroom and returned to her place with her supplies a few moments later to find that Draco hadn’t moved from his spot. His focus remained on an unseen spot fifteen feet away, and he did not acknowledge her presence or speak for the remainder of the two hours that his classmates filled with chopping, grinding, stirring, and waiting. As the bulk of the group was finally dismissed once their completed potions were turned in, he rose to gather his things, still refusing to acknowledge the girl’s presence in any way.

The departing students began to murmur over the blatant disrespect that Malfoy had shown, and even a handful of Slytherin housemates were unhappy about the substantial number of points he’d lost so close to the end of the term. There’d likely not be a way to recoup those before they left for the Christmas holidays. Malfoy didn’t care what they thought and let his disregard be known as he rudely pushed his way through the meandering group, rigid elbows and shoulders moving them out of his path.

Back in the classroom, Hermione remained behind to allow the final stage of cooling to be complete so that she could turn in her final project to her waiting teacher. As she lingered, she noted that Snape looked terribly tired and especially grim. She couldn’t help but wonder if Malfoy had tried his patience as much as he’d done to nearly everyone else in the castle recently. It had become a school-wide sport to avoid Malfoy’s morose moods and vitriolic outbursts; the prefects had a running tally of a new kind of point score, awarded on the basis of incurring Draco’s wrath. So far Hermione was losing, by virtue of being far ahead with the highest tally as, much to her chagrin, she seemed to be his favorite target. As the minutes ticked by, she debated the merits of asking her teacher if he knew why Malfoy had been so increasingly defiant. Her better sense won out over her curiosity when she concluded that the Slytherin House head was more likely to dance a jig in the Great Hall than to share a confidence or insight with her. She wisely kept her mouth shut and simply handed over her completed potion with a nod and a “Thank you, Professor,” before leaving to catch up with her friends.

The Potions teacher sat quietly at his desk for several moments after Miss Granger left his domain. He had abhorred having to take House points away after Draco’s outburst, but he had really had no choice. The boy’s behavior was beyond the pale. He couldn’t allow any student to so openly defy an assignment, and it had not been a reasonable objection regardless of the situation. Draco was becoming increasingly irascible and rebellious, with no obvious cause and no moderation in sight. He’d begun to consider the possibility that a true psychosis had developed, and wondered if a Mind Healer should be consulted, but he’d need permission from one of the young man’s parents to do that. With Lucius Malfoy out of touch and Narcissa in denial about the depth of her son’s behavior issues, that seemed an unlikely solution.

Sighing deeply, he examined the vial that had been handed to him a few moments earlier – absolutely perfect lilac in color and the exact consistency of beaten raw eggs. Miss Granger would earn full marks for this one, a small consolation for what he’d witnessed her endure over the last several weeks of verbal abuse directed at her by young Malfoy. She was insufferable, but she didn’t deserve that constant haranguing – no one did. He had to admire her fortitude in dealing with the steady barrage of wrath. He supposed that four and a half years of friendship with Potter and Weasley had allowed her to develop an epic supply of patience. If Draco continued along the same path, she’d need every ounce of it.

This line of thought brought him back to the problem at hand – what to do about Draco’s miniature insurrection. He supposed it was time for another conference with the Headmaster to discuss the latest development in the on-going saga of Draco Malfoy.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

With a free period before lunch, Draco didn’t need to be anywhere specific for nearly two hours, and he debated how to pass the time. He’d left the Potions lab in a right snit and had no desire to while away the time with any of his obtuse classmates. He had no homework that demanded his immediate attention, and as a matter of habit, he now avoided the library at all costs, lest he be subjected to the stench of Mudbloods befouling the place. He decided that his best option would be to retreat to the relative peace and privacy of his room; if any of his roommates were there, he’d just kick them out. They rarely defied his orders to vacate the space, especially when he was in one of his blacker moods.

For once, he thought, his luck held out and the room was not occupied when he arrived. He’d ensure it would stay that way by placing a locking spell on the door, one of the truly impenetrable ones that he used when he wanted some uninterrupted personal time, or was “entertaining” a witch. A young man had needs, after all, and sometimes a few minutes alone in the shower stall just didn’t cut it.

Draco was looking forward to the coming holidays for two reasons. He’d not had any substantial contact with his father in nearly three months and had a strong desire to discuss several issues and plans with him, and the sooner the better. His other motivation was to escape the smothering scrutiny and obnoxious morons who had marked his existence at Hogwarts since the beginning of the term. He’d had enough. He thought this might be a good opportunity to organize his thoughts for the meeting he’d requested with his father. Lucius was not a man who’d tolerate a chit-chat; he’d need to have all his arguments and requests clearly expressed and presented. Draco sat at the desk, selected a crisp sheet of pure-white parchment from the drawer – none of that cheap yellowed junk for him – and removing his favorite diamond-tipped quill from his satchel, he took one deep breath and began to write.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nine stories above and nine-hundred-forty feet east of the dungeon where Draco was mapping out his future, Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape sat facing each other over the Headmaster’s massive desk. Neither man looked happy as the Potions professor finished relating the tale of Draco’s latest misdeed during the term’s final practical exercise.

When Snape’s account was complete, Dumbledore remained silent for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the oak surface, eyes unfocused and brow furrowed. “It’s only getting worse, isn’t it, Severus?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” he concurred. “And what’s most troubling is that none of us have been able to find any specific reason for such a dramatic shift of behavior and attitudes in such a short time. I know we’ve been down this road before, but I’m still flabbergasted that we’ve not been able to uncover some organic or influential cause. It’s almost as if he came back from summer break as a different person, and as we all know, that literal scenario has been categorically ruled out. The school’s wards would have never admitted him, and no one can take Polyjuice for that long without severe repercussions. So it’s definitely something else. He’s been influenced by his family’s prejudices for years; maybe his father’s pressure to embrace the dark has finally outweighed his mother’s marginally more tolerant nature.”

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “I’m still not convinced that that’s all there is to it, but in the absence of other evidence, there’s little else that we can do to change anything. Draco’s frustration is apparent – anyone would chafe under as much examination as we’ve subjected him to – and because of that, his acting out has been primarily limited to the verbal assault. He’s never so directly refused a teacher’s orders before now, and that’s worrisome. Add to that the result that he deliberately chose to fail an assignment rather than work with another student, simply because of her blood status, and I just don’t know whether we can justify allowing him to return after the holidays.” The Headmaster leaned back in his chair with a deep, frustrated sigh.

Snape peered at his supervisor, weighing whether he should agree or challenge the elder man’s conclusions. Crossing his right leg over his left knee and assuming a casual pose, Severus decided to fight for the Draco he’d known before this term introduced a new persona. “You may be right, Albus, but I’m concerned that if we leave him to Lucius, there will be no possibility of redeeming the young man. He’ll be utterly immersed in the dark, should we turn him away. If we keep him here, we have at least a small chance of influencing him to more positive pursuits, or at the very minimum, keeping a tighter rein on him. Think about what would happen if his only source of persuasion came from inside Malfoy Manor.”

With a grunt, Dumbledore rose from his seat and began to pace. “You make a very good point, Severus. I wonder, though, about the impact of his mother. Would that make a positive difference? She seems so resolute that this behavior is uncharacteristic of her son.”

“Possibly. But I’m fairly certain she won’t openly defy Lucius either. At best, her influence would be subtle,” Snape asserted. He hesitated a moment before speaking again. “When I last talked with her, she was obviously worried about the boy, but as you noted earlier, she’s either in denial or she’s hiding something about what’s happening to him. I’m convinced that on some level, she knows more than she’s shared with us. The bottom line is that I’m skeptical that she’d be equipped to do much to change the situation for the better.”

“Well, regardless of what happens with either or both of his parents, we have two weeks and two days to decide whether Draco will be welcomed back to Hogwarts in January.”

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bellatrix had made the unusual request to meet her sister for tea. While the two had been comparatively close as children despite their age difference, their relationship had been strained when the elder sister had been incarcerated in Azkaban as a convicted Death Eater after the first war. Her escape had reunited them, but Narcissa was very wary of the extreme fanaticism and zeal that her sister displayed in her support of the Dark Lord. She loved her sister, and they’d both been raised to believe in pureblood supremacy and the principle that Muggle-borns didn’t deserve their magic, but times had changed and Narcissa’s views had softened a tad. She’d seen too much senseless violence and too many lives destroyed. Most of all, she recognized the irony of the pureblood cause being championed by an undoubtedly psychotic and power-mad half-blood. Narcissa was a lot more observant and intelligent than most expected of the dutiful Malfoy wife. Her husband’s and brother-in-law’s keenness to involve her son in the fight was another factor in cooling her enthusiasm for a movement that, if sheer numbers were any indicator, had no real future.

Thus, her sister’s invitation filled Narcissa with trepidation. What did Bella want, and how did she see Cissy aiding her agenda? While technically still wanted by the Ministry for her Azkaban escape, Bellatrix had not been terribly cautious about travelling in public. For this get-together, however, she’d requested that they meet at Malfoy Manor. Narcissa agreed readily, feeling more comfortable and in control in her own home. When Bella arrived via the Floo network, thankfully without her obnoxious husband, Narcissa greeted her warmly, but with guard raised. They made their way to the drawing room where tea service, sandwiches, and pastries had been laid out for them.

“It’s so lovely to see you, sister. It has been far too long since we’ve just had the occasion to sit and chat together,” Bella cooed as she sat in one of the matching wing chairs on either side of the round mahogany occasional table.

This immediately put Narcissa on alert. Bella never cooed. Bella never sat with anyone to chat. Bella was not a social person by any definition of the word. She was up to something, her younger sibling was now certain. Bella’s uncharacteristic behavior was merely a caricature of how she thought people in this kind of situation would behave, and Narcissa was not fooled. She was sure that it wouldn’t take a terribly long time for Bella’s ulterior motives to emerge; Bella was clearly not skilled in subtlety. In the meantime, she’d play along and allow things to develop as they would.

“Yes, dear. It has been a very long time.”

“Our family spends far too little time gathered together, don’t you think? Especially with the Yule holidays upon us, we should make a point to celebrate together. That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? I don’t think we’ve done that since we were children.”

Internal alarm bells started ringing. “That’s true, Bella. I can’t recall the last time we all celebrated a holiday together,” came Narcissa’s noncommittal reply.

“We should do that this year,” Bella pressed.

“What did you have in mind, dear?” Narcissa offered some leeway to allow her sister to reveal her intentions.

“Well, I thought we might gather for dinner, or possibly an evening of music. Whatever you like. Of course, we may want to wait until Draco returns home from school. When will that be, dear?”

Hippogriffs began to stomp in Narcissa’s stomach. _There it is. She wants Draco,_ Narcissa concluded. _This can’t be good, but there’s little I can do to stop her from visiting, and she’ll go around me to Lucius if I refuse her. My husband won’t think twice about allowing her access to our son. I need to maintain as much control of the situation as possible._

“I’m not sure yet. He’s not owled us with the release schedule yet,” Narcissa replied as she sought to buy a little time.

“Well, as soon as you know, we can finalize plans. It will be lovely to see my nephew again.” Bella’s teeth showed in something that resembled a smile.

“Of course, Bella. I will need to check with Lucius as well, when he returns from his business trip tomorrow, but I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange something.”

“Delightful, Cissy! Just wonderful!” Bella enthused, her eyes wide and bright.

Most telling to Narcissa was the fact that they exchanged barely ten more words while sipping tea and nibbling cucumber sandwiches before Bella announced, “Well, this has been just charming. We should do this much more often. I must be on my way, though. Yule preparations to be made, you know!” Throughout her goodbyes, Bella moved rather swiftly toward the Floo and barely paused to kiss the air near Narcissa’s cheek before making her escape, leaving the younger Black sister standing agape in her wake.

It was clear, she thought, that she’d have to find a way to shield Draco from his aunt’s influence, hoping against hope that it wasn’t already too late.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco read over the two feet of parchment that he’d filled, feeling both satisfied and settled. He’d captured the most critical elements of his plan and outlined exactly how he wanted to achieve each piece. He hoped his father would be pleased. Convincing his mother not to object to his desired path would be more of a challenge, but he felt that with his father’s support, she’d not risk interfering. His mother was always coddling him, treating him like a child. He bristled at the thought. At fifteen and a half, he was nearly a man, and she should treat him as such. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the sweets and treats that she sent, but he’d often wished that she’d give him some space to grow into the man he needed to be. His father’s influence and guidance would be required to nudge things along just a bit more rapidly. In two days, he’d be returning home and it was time to tell his father that he was ready to take his rightful place in the Dark Lord’s cause.


	10. Searching

For the first time since he’d awakened, naked and covered in blood, Draco opened the exterior door of the small cottage. He stood on the wooden covered porch that spanned the breadth of the structure’s northern side. A white painted railing, weathered and peeling, surrounded the edge. Now mostly in shadow because of the late afternoon sun’s position in the sky and a growing cloud cover, he squinted to make out details of the items he saw. On the far left, he saw a faded yellow wood and rattan rocker, the ladder-back partially obscured by a tattered crocheted throw, color indeterminate in the gloom. A small stack of wood rested against the building’s façade. To his right, Draco saw a dry and dead plant resting on the railing. By the looks of it, the pot had been there for years. A small wooden chest sat in the far corner; it seemed to be the only thing that might contain anything, and he moved to inspect its contents.

Draco lifted the lid, rusty hinges creaking and groaning at his intrusion. This corner was too dark to see anything inside, so he dragged the surprisingly heavy box to the porch’s center where the light was a little better. This suddenly made him realize that, once darkness fell in no more than an hour, he’d have no light in the house. Recognizing that this was a more pressing problem, he lugged the chest into the house and set it aside momentarily in favor of looking for lamps, candles, anything that might be used to generate a light source. He was utterly lost without a wand to cast Lumos or magical lamps to light. He wondered, just how did Muggles manage? He absently recalled something called eckel-something-or-other that had been described in that Muggle Studies class so long ago, but remembered absolutely nothing more about it. He had no idea whether this property was even equipped with the stuff, and even if it was, he had not a clue how to use it. Another question for Granger when she was up to it.

He didn’t remember seeing anything that would do the job on his search of the sitting room, or in either bedroom. The kitchen might have had a box of matches, but although he vaguely knew what they were, he didn’t know how to light them. “I’m nearly useless here,” he snorted in self-deprecation. “I’ll never regret more than this moment that I didn’t pay attention in that bloody class.” He understood that even if he could figure out how to light the matches, he still needed something to set them to, like a candle. That, he hadn’t yet found. He had abandoned the basement when he’d found the two boxes of clothing, and at least half of the space hadn’t been explored. That should be his next stop before it got too dark to see a thing.

He carefully made his way down the stairs and into the section he’d ignored earlier. Relief and gratitude flashed over him as he saw that the near side of the basement was still lit by the dimming sun filtered through three small rectangular windows at the top of the wall, just under the flooring of the main level. He saw two wooden work benches, each about three feet high and six feet long. One held a long, narrow metal box, which had a small lock looped through the clasp on the front. He tugged on the lock and was pleasantly surprised when it easily released in his hand; it was rusted nearly all the way through. He opened the lid to find a collection of thin metal implements, some with wood handles, most with at least some rust dotting their surface. He didn’t know what they were or how they were used but, he guessed again, Granger might.

Setting the box at the foot of the stairs, he decided he’d bring it into the sitting room for further inspection. There was nothing on top of the other wooden bench, but he smiled broadly when he saw what was beneath it - a lamp, not dissimilar to the kind you’d find in Malfoy Manor or any other wizarding home. It held some kind of liquid in the bottom, which he assumed was fuel of some sort. He’d lay heavy odds that Granger would know exactly what to do with this. As soon as she awoke, he’d make this first priority, assuming she was able to communicate well enough to tell him what to do.

Finding nothing else that seemed to be of immediate value, he brought his latest treasures up the stairs, carefully balancing the lamp on top of the metal box. He set them on one of the tables in the sitting room then went back into the kitchen to see if he could find the box of matches he thought he’d seen. After rummaging through a couple of drawers and cabinets, he found them sitting on the back of a large metal, um, thing that had four circular rings on the top and four circular knobs on the front. Whatever it was, he again had not the slightest idea.

Moving back to the sitting room with matches in hand, Draco decided to quickly check the box he’d brought in from the porch before waking up Granger. Resting on one knee before the wooden crate, he lifted the lid and peered inside. “Huh? Jars of pickles?” Draco was surprised, to say the least. “Who keeps ten jars of pickles in a box?” he muttered, shaking his head in amusement. “Well, it is something edible and that’s better than absolutely nothing, I suppose.”

In the thirty minutes or so that he’d been searching the porch and the basement, the light coming from outside had begun to dim quickly and considerably. He hated to wake Granger after such a short time, but they’d be sitting in complete darkness if he waited much longer. She was frightened as it was, and Draco didn’t think she’d appreciate not being able to see where he was or what he was doing. She, with good reason, didn’t trust him. With an apology ready on his lips, he went back to the bedroom where he’d left her, and knocked twice on the door before opening it. The sound had been enough to rouse her, and she slowly opened her eyes.

“How long?” she whispered hoarsely.

“I’m sorry to wake you so soon, Granger. It’s only been about half an hour at the most. I really need your help on a couple of, uh, Muggle things and it really couldn’t wait,” Draco explained.

“Wut?” she squeaked.

“Lighting. I don’t have any idea how to get lighting for us in this Muggle house, and it’s getting dark really fast,” he said.

“Swit.”

“Swit? What’s that? Sorry, I don’t understand.” Draco looked at her, confusion writ all over his face.

Hermione lifted her hand about six inches off the bed and pointed toward the wall. Draco followed her gaze to a tiny white thing that was sticking out from the flat surface. “That?” he questioned.

“Ya. Up.”

Shrugging, Draco moved to the wall, flicked the little knob in the direction Granger indicated, and jumped about a foot into the air, squealing like a little girl when the room was flooded with bright light from above. “Whoa! Is that eckeltricity?” Draco’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

Hermione couldn’t help but crack the faintest smile. “Ya.”

“How did you know it would work?” he queried.

“Wot. Pump,” she explained.

“The water? It’s pumped from something?” Draco was thoroughly confused. Things just didn’t work this way in the wizarding world.

“Ya. Tank,” she expanded.

“Well, okay then. We have eckeltricity. I suppose that’s a good thing?” He met her eyes looking for confirmation, which she supplied with a nod. “So anywhere I find one of those little knobs, if I flick it up, it will turn on lights?”

“Ya.”

“How do I turn them off?”

“Down.”

“Oh.” He had the good grace to be embarrassed over missing this incredibly simple concept, and blushed to his ears.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but with more amusement than disgust. It was clear that the young wizard was entirely out of his element. She’d have to provide a significant amount of guidance to keep him functioning in this environment.

“Um, Granger, what about heat? It’s awfully cold, and it’ll just get colder as the sun goes down. Any ideas?”

She huffed in frustration. How could she explain a furnace and thermostat without being able to speak? And that scenario also assumed that there was fuel for whatever type of heating system this house might have. Draco could see the irritation in her expression.

“I know, you’re having trouble talking. Um, do you know why that is?” he probed, not a little worried about what she’d tell him he did to cause that particular problem.

“Bit tung.”

Oh, that wasn’t so horrible, he thought. “You bit your tongue?” he confirmed.

“Nnn. You.”

“Oh shit. I bit your tongue?” Draco dropped his face into his palms, thoroughly mortified. “I’m sorry, Granger. For the hundredth time, I’m sorry.”

“S’ok. Swe dow.”

“It’s not okay, and we both know it, but I’m happy that the swelling is starting to go down, if I understood you correctly.”

“Ya.”

“Hey, would it help if I gave you another piece of wet towel that you could suck on? If we had ice, that’d be perfect, but I couldn’t find anything that would supply ice, even if I knew what made ice in the Muggle world,” Draco rambled.

Hermione raised her hand to stop his blabbering. “Ya.”

“Great. I’ll get it for you right now.” Draco was inordinately relieved to be able to leave the room for a moment to attempt to recapture a tiny sliver of his dignity. “Merlin, what a colossal shit I am.”

When he came back with a small hand towel that had been soaked in the icy tap water, Hermione’s eyes had drifted shut, and he thought that she had fallen asleep again, so he returned the wet towel to the sink. But as he re-entered the room, she opened them again, watching from her position on the bed behind him as he folded a once-colorful patchwork quilt and set aside some bed linens. His deliberate moves and focused demeanor were so dramatically at odds with the young man she’d known in their last two years at Hogwarts. He’d been rash, wild, and erratic in everything he did, especially in their sixth year, before the school had closed. His eyes even looked different, less glazed, and sharper. Even through her own mental fogginess, Hermione could see that something had changed, something big. She prayed that it was a change for the better.

“Maffoy,” she whispered.

He was startled by her calling his name, having been convinced that she was sleeping. Turning to face her, his expression was placid as he spoke. “I didn’t realize you were still awake. Let me get that towel back for you,” he offered.

“Way.” She lifted her hand to indicate she wanted him to stop.

“Sure. What else do you need?”

She narrowed her eyes and looked straight at him. “You okay?”

Draco’s jaw literally dropped open, his shock was so great. “You really are a piece of work, Granger. I’m fine. But thanks for asking.” He shook his head, still stunned. He hesitated before speaking again. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged slightly, casting her glance downward. “D’frn.”

Draco folded his arms across his chest, feeling just a little bit defensive. “I’m different? To what? And how would you know? As far as I can remember, I haven’t seen you in more than two years, until yesterday.”

Hermione huffed, again undoubtedly frustrated with her inability to speak without significant pain. She shook her head, trying to convey that she was currently unable to communicate her message. She waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal, just for good measure. He’d have to wait for an answer to these questions. “Tow?” she requested.

With a sigh, Draco accepted that she had tabled the topic, at least for now, and nodded. He left her briefly to retrieve the wet towel from the adjacent bathroom.

When he handed it to her, she met his eyes and nodded her thanks, opening her mouth to gain some relief from the cool cloth. He smirked just a little at the decidedly odd sight of Hermione Granger with a wet towel stuck in her mouth. She rolled her eyes, not ignorant to the strangeness of the visual. She tossed her head toward the door, indicating that he should leave.

“No problem, Granger. I get it. You want me out of here so you can go back to sleep. I’ll go now, but we’ve got some talking to do later, so you keep that thing in your mouth to get the swelling down more.” With that, Draco flipped the light switch down and stepped out of the room closing the door behind him. Hermione shut her eyes, and drifted off to sleep, thoughts swirling about what had happened with and to Draco over the last five or six years.

Draco went to the sitting room and searched the wall for one of those little knob things that turned on the overhead lights. He finally found it near the entrance to the kitchen, and was rewarded with the expected flash of brightness when he followed Granger’s instructions. “Okay, that’s pretty simple. I could get used to this eckeltricity stuff if I had to,” Draco mused. He sat on the dingy sofa, leaning his head back against its top. His headache had dulled, but the lump on his temple was very tender. He could use some ice as much as Granger. He closed his eyes for a moment, just for a little relief against the unaccustomed brightness.

It was definitely getting colder, and it would likely dip into the frigid range overnight. He hoped that Granger would wake up in time to give him some guidance on how to get the fireplace working. His eyes popped open suddenly as an idea flashed across his brain. “It’s going to freeze outside tonight!” he exclaimed.

Jumping up from his seat, he dashed into the kitchen and looked for anything deep enough to hold water but shallow enough to allow it to freeze quickly - and still get the block of ice out. The glasses wouldn’t really work – too deep – but the two small plates would probably do the trick, and yield enough ice to give a little comfort to her mouth and his head. He filled both plates with about a half-inch of water and carried them both to the front entrance. He set one of them down to open the door and then placed both on the wooden decking, returning to the sitting room with a satisfied grin. “I’m not quite so useless after all,” he decided. It had been a long stressful day; he leaned his head back against the sofa, and dozed off for about an hour.

When Draco awoke, the sun had completely disappeared and the sky was black. He had developed a bit of a crick in his neck, and his head still ached, but he did feel a little more rested and calm. He figured it was about time to check on Granger, so he rose and stretched, working a few kinks out of his sore muscles.

Draco knocked twice on the bedroom door and called out her name, “Granger, I’m coming in.” He opened the door and saw that she was awake and had removed the towel from her mouth. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yeth, thanks,” Hermione lisped out, but it was definitely more understandable than her previous attempts. “Rethted. Thor all over, tho,” she stated.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Draco offered once again, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, eyes downcast.

“Thtop apologithing. I get it,” she snapped, growing annoyed and confused at his unexpectedly contrite behavior. “Jus move on. Pleathe.”

His cheeks colored and he nodded. “I understand that you don’t want to talk about what happened, Granger. But at some point we’re going to need to confront this. I’m absolutely serious when I say I don’t remember what happened here, or even know where we are or how we got here. I’m guessing that you have an answer or two to those questions, and I need to know. I’ve reached a few conclusions based on your condition and mine when I woke up, but there’s clearly more to it. I never thought I’d say this, but I need you, Granger, to help me figure out exactly what's happened, and even who I am right now.”

She looked at him for a moment, weighing what she saw and heard now against what she’d seen and heard the day before, and what she’d known of him since their fifth year at Hogwarts, when he’d become a dramatically different person for the first time. She knew that Draco could practically hear the gears turning in her head, recognizing how their fates were entwined, at least for the next few days. He was right about one thing, there was certainly a lot more to the story than met the eye, and she’d have little choice but to be his storyteller if bodies and souls were to be saved.

“I know. Jus need a little time. Pleathe,” she begged him once more, this time with her eyes more than her voice.

He sighed, but not with anger. “Fine, Granger. Take whatever time you need before we talk about this. There are a couple of practical matters that need to be dealt with now, though. Are you up to doing that – at least for a few minutes?”

“Thure. What do you need?”

“Thank you. The first thing we need to do is figure out how to get some heat into this place. I know you can’t really move around yet, but if you can talk me through a couple of things, we can probably avoid freezing to death tonight. Okay?”

“Did you thee a furnath?”

“A furnath? What’s that? Sorry, I don’t know that word, Granger.”

She breathed deeply to gather strength enough to talk through the pain in her damaged tongue. “Furnace, Malfoy.”

He looked at her in confusion again. “Still don’t know what that is. I’m assuming it’s a Muggle thing, right?”

She nodded. “Make heat. Needth fuel like oil or coal or gath.”

“Let me make sure I understand what you’re saying. It’s a device that you put oil, coal, or gas into and it makes heat. Is that right? Are the fuels interchangeable?”

“Yeth and definitely no.”

“Okay – I got the basic concept right but there are different types of furnaces and they use different fuels, correct?”

“Yeth.”

“How do I recognize a furnace and how can I tell what kind of fuel it uses?”

“Big, metal, in bathement. Pipeth to and from,” Hermione gasped out. She was becoming winded with the effort of speaking so much, and she was beginning to think she might have at least a minor rib injury because deep breathing was very painful. “Retht, pleathe,” she begged, unable to continue for the moment.

“No problem, Granger. Why don’t you rest for a few minutes and I’ll go explore the basement and see what I can find.” With that, Draco left her to recover and made his way to the door leading to the lower level. He quickly found the ‘light knob thing’ as he’d mentally named it, and the basement was now as bright as he could wish. The young man had a logical mind and while his knowledge of magical sciences wasn’t specifically helpful, many fundamental concepts across the wizarding and Muggle worlds were more similar than he’d ever imagined. In particular, the scientific method of test and trial and of understanding pattern and path would stand him in good stead.

He looked around the basement and found four large metal boxes that might be a "furnace." Now he would need to examine each to see if he could determine which machine was which. He ran into a little good luck with two items which were actually labeled “Deluxe Washer” and “Heavy Duty Dryer." Both looked like they had seen better days, with significant amounts of rust at joins and corners. That left two large metal machines for him to inspect. They were also placed side by side, as the other two items had been, and seemed to be connected by pipes. Granger had mentioned pipes, so that seemed promising. He decided to follow the pipes to see where they led.

It appeared that one set went up through the floor into the main level of the cottage. The other set stretched from the machine on the left, trussed across the ceiling and into a large tank. The tank had a gauge on the top that seemed to indicate it was three-quarters full. That seemed to hold promise, if Granger could tell him how to get the thing started.

Draco decided that since he had full light now, it would make sense to look around to see if he’d overlooked anything else that might be useful. He poked through each corner, nook, and cranny and was surprised to find a wooden cabinet tucked into the space below the stairs. He’d completely missed it in his last two trips down here. He opened the doors and found a small stock of cans, covered with a thin layer of dust. According to their labels, they contained baked beans, stewed tomatoes, peas, creamed corn, and something called SPAM. Well, as long as they weren’t contaminated, they wouldn’t starve to death. He’d bring them up to the kitchen and get Granger to check them. They were Muggle things; she’d know.

There was one thing, though, that was niggling at his brain. If this house had been abandoned for as long as it had appeared, why was the eckeltricity working? Didn’t that require service contracts and payments and such? “Odd. Very odd,” Draco observed.


	11. Entrenching

_**Five Years and Two Months Ago** _

Two and a half months without the attentions of his wife had left Lucius Malfoy irritable and surly. While he acknowledged that she had a calming influence on him in most situations, it was his baser nature that needed consideration now. He strode through the hallway of the main level calling her name at top volume. “Narcissa! Where are you? I’m home.” That he hadn’t thought to call a house-elf for search duty was testament to his impatience.

Hearing his bellowed summons, Narcissa set aside the correspondence she’d been reading in her study and met him as he rounded the corner into the west wing of the Manor, pulling up short so as to avoid a painful collision. That turned out to be a pointless effort as Lucius tugged her aggressively toward him, resulting in a crushing embrace that was bordering on abusive. “There you are – I’ve been looking for you!” he said, a feral growl in his voice. He bent to claim her lips in a deep and passionate kiss, leaving no doubt about why he’d been dashing through the halls in search of his wife. He broke his enveloping hold on her only long enough to drag her into their bedchamber, the entrance just ten feet from where he’d found her.

Once the door was closed, he stripped their clothes with an impatient display of wandless magic. “I’ll take my time later, wife. For now, I need you as fast as I can take you,” he apologized without any real remorse.

Narcissa just smirked and fell onto the bed. “I’ll keep you to your promise, husband, on both accounts.”

An hour later, both sated and sleepy, Narcissa lifted her head from her husband’s chest and hesitantly opened her mouth to speak. “Lucius, Draco will be home tomorrow. I’ve missed him so.”

“I’m sure you have, love, and I’m sure he’s missed you too,” Lucius soothed. He, too, paused briefly before sharing his own tidbit of news. “Did you know that he owled me a couple of weeks ago? He requested a meeting upon his return from school.”

Narcissa’s heart began to thud rapidly, imagining all kinds of scenarios that could draw her son and husband together – some more dastardly than others, but few with completely benign content. “I didn’t know that, dear. Did he say what he wanted to speak with you about?” she probed, trying not to betray the concern in her voice.

Lucius was wool-gathering and scarcely paid attention to his wife’s question. “Hmmm? No, nothing specific. Just said he wanted to talk about his future. You know he’s going to be sixteen in a few months; I’m sure he’s starting to think about what he wants to do once he graduates, and how he’ll take his place in the family’s, uh, interests,” Lucius hedged.

“Oh, Lucius, please don’t push him too soon,” Narcissa whispered. “I’m afraid for him. I don’t want him to lose his soul to a madman’s folly.”

A deep sigh preceded her husband’s response. “Cissy, Draco requested this meeting. He’s clearly already thinking about his future. He’s smart enough to know that if he doesn’t come willingly, it will be much worse for everyone if he’s dragged in kicking and screaming. This is our legacy and our future, Narcissa. I may not agree with all of the Dark Lord’s goals, or all of his methods to achieve them, but this is our power base. Without it, we may as well be Weasleys.”

“I understand that, Lucius, but the hypocrisy of it all…” Her meaning clear, Narcissa’s voice trailed into nothingness.

“When the Dark Lord comes to power, he will need strong lieutenants and gifted leaders to maintain order and rule. I intend that those roles be filled by Draco and me for a very long time.”

“How can you be so sure that he will prevail, Lucius? I’m not convinced, not in the least,” she argued.

“Obviously, I can’t be one-hundred percent certain, but the dark magic he uses is so ancient and so powerful. And he’s more than willing to use questionable tactics and strategies that the Light side would rather die than employ. That, I believe, will be their downfall, and I intend to be on the winning side, regardless of whether I have some distaste for a method or two. The ends justify the means, and all.” Lucius waved a hand dismissively, as though this was something that she should know and embrace willingly.

“Forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel any better about this, but I’d rather not have my son embroiled in political intrigue and violent bloodshed before he’s even sixteen years old,” Narcissa spat. She disentangled her limbs from his and rose to wrap herself in the baby blue silk dressing gown that rested on a bench at the foot of their king-sized cherry wood bed.

Lucius leaned up on one elbow, head resting in his palm, and watched her stiffly stomp around the room, gathering the clothing that had been discarded in haste earlier. “If certain things were different, I’d agree. But I can’t do anything to change what is, only manage to deal with it the best we can. If you’ve got other ideas, I’m willing to listen, but I don’t see a way out of this that doesn’t leave all of us dead at the Dark Lord’s feet,” Lucius retorted. “Look, Cissy, decisions that were made by my father and his father before, set us on a path that is nearly impossible to abandon. I made my own choices as a young man that, in hindsight, could have been better considered. But what’s done is done, and if we tried to walk away now, even with the influence and funds that we have at our disposal, we’d never be safe. We’d always be looking over our shoulders, waiting for one of his followers to punish us for our betrayal. I don’t want to live like that.”

“But you’d rather sacrifice our son’s future to what amounts to a lifetime of servitude to a lunatic?!” Narcissa rounded on her husband, voice raised and eyes flashing.

Lucius rose from the bed in all his naked glory and in two long strides, reached his wife where she stood near her marble-topped dressing table. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he squeezed firmly to focus her attention and assert his dominance. “Narcissa, we are all in servitude to someone, somewhere along the way. Draco will be as close to the top of the ladder as he can be if he gets involved now. If he waits, his commitment will always be questioned and his position far less secure. I’m trying to carve out the best possible scenario for him, given the circumstances.” He gave her the tiniest shake, letting just a little of his own anger and frustration show, then released her abruptly. “That’s it. I don’t want to hear another word about this.” He stalked away from her into their adjoining bathroom and called for a house-elf to draw his bath, sending a Colloportus to the door behind him, effectively shutting his wife out.

Not one to be easily deterred, Narcissa moved to the heavy wooden door and pounded on it with the side of her closed fist. “My sister wants him, Lucius. And she’s insane. I can’t let her have my boy.”

On the other side of the door, the senior Malfoy sat on the side of the tub, head in his hands, as he listened to his wife sobbing in great, wracking gulps. “I know, Cissy. I know,” he whispered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa had retreated to a guest room for her own bath and to sleep for the night. She just could not tolerate her husband’s presence after their row over Draco. She felt heartbroken and defeated, convinced that her son was being ripped from her long before it was time. It was infinitely more painful than the forty-three hours that she’d labored in delivering the child, her own life in the balance for most of that time. If she knew what this time would bring, she’d have gladly sacrificed both of their lives then rather than allow her only son to succumb now to the whims and schemes of that evil half-blood bastard.

Draco had owled her early that morning, and his note had been curt and succinct, none of his usual chatty questions about Yule preparations or how he’d missed her. It had been all of two sentences: "School is dismissed at 5:00p.m. today, and we leave on the Hogwarts Express at 9:00a.m. tomorrow. I’ll expect someone will meet me at the station."

The last statement brought home the fact that the young man was not yet even of age to Apparate on his own. “What in Merlin’s name is my idiot of a husband thinking?” she wondered. Her second worry came to the fore when an owl from her sister arrived, inquiring as to finalizing the family’s Yule celebration plans, and asking after Draco again. Narcissa had not gained any substantive support from Lucius in deflecting Bella’s attentions from Draco.

“Let’s wait to see what Draco wants to discuss with me before we do anything rash,” he’d admonished.

Her only hope rested in her knowledge that Draco had never shown any real interest in getting to know his aunt beyond the necessary familial acquaintance in the few times that they’d met since her dramatic escape from Azkaban. He’d looked at her with a healthy amount of suspicion and wariness, and Narcissa hoped that the boy’s skepticism about the truest “Black sheep” of the family remained.

Unable to procrastinate any longer, Narcissa replied to her sister, offering a family dinner invitation for three nights hence, Christmas Eve. She was certain that Lucius would not delay in having his tête-à-tête with Draco beyond tomorrow, and that would afford them two more days to deal with whatever fallout resulted before having to confront any lunacy that Bellatrix would attempt to perpetrate on her son. In the meantime, she would prepare for her son’s arrival, ensuring that his favorite meal and sweet treats were available for him, Lucius’ needling about her spoiling Draco be damned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco had spent the last two nights of the school term in the company of his Head of House, Severus Snape. That had formerly been a relatively welcome occurrence, but detention with the man he’d grown to distrust nearly as much as Dumbledore was positively hellish. Rather than the typical detention penance of cleaning cauldrons, writing lines, or organizing the ingredients stockroom, Draco had been subjected to endless questioning and constant Legilimency assaults. Snape clearly suspected that he was involved with something he shouldn’t be, but Draco had been relatively well-behaved since the Astronomy Tower escapade, at least to his own thinking. Sure, he’d mouthed off and talked back endlessly, but there was no blood on his hands. What else was he supposed to do, keep his mouth shut and tolerate all the bull that he’d had to endure listening to dipshit Gryffindors and brainless teachers?

In retaliation for Snape’s magical mind attack, Draco had shut his brain down like an iron gate in a prison. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d learned to do it; it just seemed to come naturally. Once he made the decision to shut someone out, they weren’t getting in, period. He could tell that his Potions professor was getting thoroughly annoyed and peeved at not being able to read anything from him, and it amused him to no end. He’d maintained eye contact as long as the older wizard had, a sickening twinkle present in his cool gray orbs.

The results of Snape’s questions were no different. He hadn’t answered a single one, not even the simplest basic queries akin to name, address, and wand material. In an effort to exasperate the elder wizard even further, Draco had been unfailingly civil in his refusal to cooperate. The refrain of “I prefer not to answer at this time, Professor,” might as well have been recorded and played back over and over again for its exact repetition. Draco left both sessions, tired and smirking at his perceived victory, well after midnight. He’d retired to his bed, treated himself to his favorite sweet confection, and fallen into satisfied rest with the knowledge that he’d thwarted Dumbledore’s emissary yet again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Infuriated" didn’t come close to describing Severus Snape’s level of anger. He’d spent a total of nine hours questioning and using Legilimency on Draco to absolutely no avail. He was having a great deal of trouble reconciling the level of Occlumency that the boy practiced with the fact that, to his knowledge, Draco had never been tutored in the art. The only other Occlumens he’d ever encountered with that degree of skill was Bellatrix Lestrange. The thought that she had somehow educated her nephew in the practice was unthinkable, and unlikely. As far as he knew, the young wizard and his aunt had only had very limited contact, and had only seen each other a bare handful of times, certainly not enough to impart that level of training. When he’d dismissed the boy from detention, he had been the one to leave with the headache, the younger wizard remaining unscathed and unaffected. Something was definitely… weird.

The children would be departing for the Yule holidays in just about three hours, and Snape wanted to ensure that he shared his observations with the Headmaster prior to the group’s departure for Hogsmeade Station, and ultimately, the Hogwarts Express. Therefore, he’d requested the early morning meeting to which he was en route. Typically, house-elves and Quidditch teams seeking practice before breakfast were the only living beings active at this hour, but he’d had an idea, and wanted to share it with Dumbledore before it was too late to capture his quarry when the train spirited him away.

“Reese’s Pieces,” the dark-haired man intoned, wondering what in Merlin’s name this particular confection might be. Dumbledore was fond of his Muggle treats, of this there was no doubt. As expected, the stone phoenix twisted aside to reveal the staircase that would bring him to the Headmaster’s office. Albus was waiting for him at a small table that had been set with breakfast treats and tea; he’d anticipated that this might be a lengthy discussion.

“Good morning, Severus. Please, join me in some breakfast. I’ve got fabulous croissants and boysenberry jam,” the older man offered.

“Thank you, Albus. You’re too kind.” Snape nodded with as much of a smile as he was likely to give – a mere twist of his thin, pale lips. He sat opposite the Headmaster and accepted a cup of tea, but did not reach for one of the flaky pastries. “I’m grateful that you agreed to see me so early this morning; I wanted to ensure we spoke before the carriages leave for Hogsmeade.”

“It was no trouble, Severus. I’ve been up for nearly two hours. I find that the older I get, the less sleep I seem to require. Perhaps my body’s way of telling me that I don’t have much time left, so I’d better stay awake to enjoy it!” He chuckled lightly. “What can I do for you today?”

“You know, Albus, that I had Draco in detention for the past two nights.” Snape paused as he waited for Dumbledore’s nod of acknowledgement. “As has been our unfortunate duty too many times this term, I used the occasion to attempt to both question and use Legilimency on the young man.”

“Attempt?” Dumbledore questioned at the clearly deliberate and troubling choice of word.

“Yes, sir, attempt. I’m afraid that Draco refused to answer a single question that I asked of him, and was again able to completely block every attempt I made to peer into his mind. I was thinking about this earlier, and something troubling came to me. The only other person I’ve ever encountered who had a greater level of skill in Occlumency was Bellatrix Lestrange. To my knowledge, she has not had much access to Draco, not enough to teach him the level of skill he displays, but what if I’m wrong about that? What if she is in contact with him, and instructing or influencing him in the Dark Arts?”

“Hmmm. Interesting thought, Severus, but I don’t see how she could be doing that. We have carefully scrutinized every owl and package that Draco has received since the beginning of November. I realize that there were two months of the term prior to that, but the general tracking and screening that we do on all post in and out of Hogwarts has not detected any change in the number or type of parcels or letters Draco has received. The tracking spell that Professor Flitwick placed on him has not noted any attempts to leave the castle, and Draco has diligently stuck to two or three favored locations for his leisure time. He even stopped going to the library a few weeks ago, and other than a quick broom flight around the Quidditch pitch every now and again, he keeps to his room. He rarely even frequents the Slytherin Common room. How could she get to him?” Albus’ musing was almost more for his own benefit than for Severus’.

Sighing in frustration, Severus had to agree. “I suppose you’re right. I’m grasping at straws because I’m utterly at a loss to explain how and why he’s changed and how he’s acquired these new skills without apparent instruction. I’ve always thought the boy intelligent and capable, but these are skills that require a great deal of practice beyond any natural ability. I guess that leaves me with another question instead of any answers. Is he that much more talented than what we believed?”

“That’s a question I can’t answer, Severus, but it would not stun me to find that to be true. I have always believed that young Mister Malfoy has not given his all during his time with us. But that is a far cry from the level of ability you describe.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good, but it leads me to the reason I wanted to see you so early this morning. I was thinking that you and I should take a little trip down to the courtyard while the students are boarding the carriages, and maybe catch Draco unawares. Each time we’ve attempted Legilimency previously, he had time to recognize what we were doing and defend against it quickly. What if we were to double-team him, so to speak, and see if we’re able to catch some flash of memory or image before he has time to slam down the walls?”

Dumbledore looked at the man with a guileless, open expression. “I cannot believe that we haven’t thought of that before now, Severus. That’s brilliant, and I’m glad one of us finally came to our senses. If he’s distracted enough with the idea of getting home, we may have a window of opportunity that won’t soon be open to us again. Let’s take a few moments to strategize how we’ll do this, and then we’ll meet again in the courtyard about fifteen minutes before the students are expected.”

Severus felt a small shiver of a sensation that had been woefully unfamiliar lately – hope for success – and bent to the task of brainstorming with his Headmaster for what could be the most important assignment he’d have as a teacher and school official all year.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As the students gathered for breakfast for the final time this term, the two Professors made a brief appearance in the Great Hall, but left soon after the Headmaster’s fond farewell and Yule Tidings message on the pretense of overseeing final departure preparations. They’d agreed to make their presence known as the students arrived in the courtyard to board the carriages, and to make a fairly obvious show of leaving for other duties early on in the process. They’d planned to return under powerful Disillusionment spells to observe their target, young Mister Malfoy, in the hopes of catching him unguarded and unawares. Both were hopeful that their mission would yield better results than their previous efforts.

The young wizard in question actually awoke in a reasonably good mood; he’d be leaving this annoying environment for what he hoped would be the final time, dependent upon the outcome of his meeting with his father. His thoughts kept circling back to the missive he’d written two days earlier – his plan for the future – and he rehearsed over and over again how he’d present his wishes.

This was the tiny opening that Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore had been waiting for, and together they gently but thoroughly probed Draco’s mind for any clues they could find. They completed their exercise when the blond climbed aboard one of the waiting carriages, and returned to the Headmaster’s office to discuss what they’d discovered.

Dumbledore had invited Minerva and Filius to join them for their meeting, and both had arrived mere moments after the final carriage left the courtyard’s gates. “Thank you for joining us this morning. We have some news to share regarding the situation with Draco Malfoy, some of it quite troubling and much of it as confusing as his behavior this term. Severus and I were finally able to successfully complete a Legilimency spell on him while he was distracted during the boarding in the courtyard. I’m embarrassed to say that none of us had thought to use that approach earlier, but what’s done is done. We’ve extracted a selection of memories and placed them in the pensieve. There are two in particular that I think will give us a very stark picture of what Draco’s state of mind is right now. I thought we’d project them from there so that we can watch and discuss them together.”

At the group’s nods and murmurs of agreement, the Headmaster used his wand to select the first memory he wanted them to see. “This one is the most disconcerting to me. Let’s view it all the way through first, and then share our impressions.”

_Draco’s writing took on a furious pace as his thoughts solidified and his anger at his situation overtook him. His exhaustive diatribe against Mudbloods and blood traitors was worthy of any uttered by the most zealous of the Dark Lord’s followers. He described in lurid detail how he wished to “eradicate” the wizarding world of the “scourge” of those who sought to change the pureblood way of life by allowing more power and authority to be granted to the unworthy among them. His note indicated that he viewed murder, torture, and rape as acceptable for both punishment and “a deterrent inducement” for those who did not share his thinking. He concluded with a very specific wish – to take the Dark Mark as soon as possible and to leave Hogwarts in all due haste._

The four professors were quiet for several moments as they absorbed and considered what they’d witnessed. Minerva McGonagall was the first to break the silence. “Albus, if this is true, I do not see how we can possibly allow him to return to Hogwarts. It seems as though he’s just biding his time before a thorough explosion of violence. There are far too many here who would be targets for his rage. I can not be party to putting them at such clear risk.”

Dumbledore only nodded in acknowledgement but did not voice a reply. He looked next to the diminutive Charms professor. “Filius, what are your thoughts?” he prompted.

“I tend to agree with Minerva, but I also want to know what else you found. Your desire to discuss this rather than to make a firm decision to expel him on the basis of this undoubtedly disturbing development indicates to me that there are mitigating factors that you’ve found. I’ll respect that and reserve judgment for the moment.”

“Severus?”

“Since I saw the other things you did, I also prefer to hold back my opinion until everyone has had the opportunity to view the whole story,” he demurred.

“Very well, what do you wish us to see next, Albus?” Minerva asked with a sigh.

With another flick of his wand, Dumbledore displayed the second memory.

_Draco sat on his bed, surrounded by the contents of a large hamper sent that morning from Malfoy Manor, the glee and serenity on his face in stark contrast to the fiercely angry sneer in the previous image. He picked through the smaller packages contained within, setting one or two apart from others, and eagerly read the enclosed letter from his mother. He actually smiled as he read her brief but chatty message, and lifted items out of the hamper as though prompted to do so by her writing. He laughed aloud when he reached in to find a pair of black silk sleep pants that had charmed golden snitches flying about the waistband and hems of both legs. He actually appeared younger than his fifteen and a half years by virtue of the sheer joy and amusement he clearly felt._

Dumbledore cleared his throat as the memory ended, drawing the group’s attention to him. “As near as we can tell, this event was separated from the other by no more than thirty minutes. In the Muggle world, they’d suspect a clinical diagnosis of schizophrenia or possibly bi-polar disorder. Those afflictions rarely happen in the wizarding world, and even more rarely in purebloods. In our world, it’s more likely that such behavioral swings are caused by spells, potions, or a combination of the two. As you all know, we’ve not been able to find any such evidence in young Draco, but our inability to uncover that evidence does not mean that it does not exist. There seem to be two different Draco Malfoys inhabiting our walls, and for now, the vile one appears to be taking precedence. What this also tells me is that there is a different Draco underneath all his bluster and anger, and I, for one, don’t wish to abandon him to the fate he thinks he’s chosen for himself. I say we keep him here, if his parents don’t pull him out from under our control, and see what we can do to draw out the Draco in whom I have hope. What do you all think?”

Filius Flitwick was the first to respond. “The disparity is undoubtedly stunning. I don’t really know what to think; I’ve never seen anything like it. I must agree, however, that I am reluctant to abandon someone when there is hope to change for the better.”

“I am most concerned that if we let him go, his influences will only be worse and there will be no chance at saving him from a most unpleasant fate. I am in a position to sway his mother at least somewhat, and she will not easily give him over to the Dark Lord. I think we try to keep him here,” Severus voiced his thought.

“Well, I’m not nearly as hopeful as the rest of you, but if you all believe that there are more benefits than risks in allowing him to stay, I will defer to your judgment – provided that we use every measure possible to ensure the safety of Muggle-borns and half-bloods who could be his targets and to increase our surveillance of all of his activities,” the Transfiguration professor relented.

“Then we are agreed,” Dumbledore stated. “With the stipulations requested by Minerva, Draco Malfoy will be permitted to rejoin us for the next term.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lucius Malfoy awaited the arrival of his son on the Hogwarts Express. He’d offered to meet him personally at the station rather than send a retainer when it was apparent that his wife would be ignoring him for at least another day. She’d made her displeasure known by sleeping apart from him the previous night and refusing to even take breakfast with him that morning. She’d had a house-elf relay the message about Draco’s arrival and need for someone to rendezvous with him for the final leg of his trip back to the Manor. It had been the pointed reminder of his age that she’d intended it to be. Lucius understood her fear and anxiety; he shared them to some degree. She was not aware, however, of the intense pressure that he was receiving to deliver his son into the Dark Lord’s service at the earliest possible moment. Her own sister and brother-in-law had been among the most vocal in pushing for his early admittance into the ranks of fully invested Death Eaters. On this point, even Lucius was opposed. No one had ever been branded with the Dark Mark prior to their sixteenth birthday and there were numerous reasons for a delay until that time. This was the trump card he hoped to wield to keep Draco marginally protected for at least six more months.

Lucius also saw this trip from King’s Cross Station as an opportunity to have a few moments alone with Draco to glean what he could about the boy’s request for a meeting without the immediate influence of his mother hanging over both their heads. Draco’s note had contained a bit more detail than he’d shared with Narcissa, but not enough to provide his father with an unambiguous picture of his son’s requests. Draco had been deliberately vague, probably to avoid the certain prying eyes of Hogwarts’ professors. But Lucius knew his son well enough to read between the lines, and he was a little surprised at the tone of his son’s note. It gave him pause that perhaps Narcissa’s concerns about her son’s behavior were not unwarranted. Lucius had always believed, above all else, in self-preservation and clear-eyed practicality. There was no place in the Malfoy creed for wild fervor; it led to enormous mistakes - passionate ones, to be sure, but mistakes nonetheless. What he’d read in the undercurrent of his son’s request smacked of the fanaticism that tainted both Bella’s and Rodolphus’ ability to function outside the confines of the Dark Lord’s narrow world. If nothing else, he needed to impress upon Draco the desirability and wisdom of a more moderate approach, at least in appearance, than that adopted by some of the more rabid zealots who invariably marginalized themselves too quickly to be of real effect. They would need to maintain “plausible deniability” – a term he’d learned from the Muggle political world - should things not turn out as the Dark Lord desired. His sister-in-law would likely be quite displeased at such a turn of events. For some reason, that made him want to smirk.

Lucius was roused from his reverie by the sound of the train whistle signaling the approach of the Hogwarts Express. His boy would be joining him momentarily.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco’s ride back home had been as irritating and mind-numbing as had the trip at the beginning of the term. He’d secured a compartment by himself, locking out any and all potential companions. He’d wanted to continue preparing for his meeting with his father without the constant prattling and inanity of his classmates. He’d heard Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, and Nott all request entrance, and thoroughly ignored each and every one. He’d even turned Zabini away; he was the only one Draco had felt slightly chagrined to snub. Maybe he’d make it up to him at some later date, but for now, Draco wanted his solitude.

When the train had finally pulled in to King’s Cross, a light, wet snow had begun to fall and Draco hoped that it hadn’t delayed whomever was meeting him for the trip back to the Manor. He was therefore both surprised and pleased that it was his father whom he spied standing apart from the gathered rabble in wait for him; they’d have some private time to talk. Draco made his way through the crowd as the house-elves accompanying the senior Malfoy retrieved his trunks from the baggage compartment. Hugs were simply not done between Malfoy men over the age of seven, so Draco extended his hand in greeting. He was stunned, then, when his father gathered him closer, in what was not quite a hug but more than a simple hand-clasp. He surmised that his father’s extended business trip had left him melancholy and missing his family. How uncharacteristic, he mused.

“Father, how was your trip? Did you get home yesterday?” Draco asked.

“It was productive, thank you. I arrived early in the afternoon,” Lucius answered, not expanding or volunteering anything further. “I received your owl two weeks ago, requesting that we meet about your future plans. Since I brought the carriage, it will take us about an hour to get back to the Manor. Will that be sufficient time to discuss your request?” They both boarded the carriage which had already been loaded with Draco’s trunks, father and son sitting opposite each other on the velvet-covered benches.

“Yes, Father, I believe it will.”

“Good. I’m sure your mother will want to spend some time with you when we get back, so this will allow us some time without interference. What’s on your mind, son?”

In this anxious moment, when Draco’s future rested before him, all his well-laid plans for outlining a cogent argument flew right out of his head, and he blurted without thought, “Father, I want to leave Hogwarts and take the Dark Mark as soon as possible.”

Lucius sat quietly, crossing one leg over the other, while he considered how to respond to his son’s outburst. He’d suspected that Draco would ask for some role or assignment in the Dark Lord’s service, possibly in some spying on suspected Order members at Hogwarts or even in keeping an eye on the activities of young Potter, but this went far beyond what his expectations had been. “Why do you think that’s the best course of action for you now, Draco?” he asked calmly, maintaining eye contact with his only child.

“I can’t tolerate being there any longer, Father,” he whined. “There are so many Mudbloods and blood traitors, and I simply can’t stomach being around them. I want to fight for our rights, and I want to do that to the fullest extent that I can.”

“That’s admirable, Draco, but what makes you think you are ready to be a full member of the Dark Lord’s army? You aren’t even a fully trained wizard yet. How are you to be of use when there are so many who are much better qualified and experienced than you?”

“I’ll study hard on my own. I’ll do whatever I have to do,” Draco sounded utterly desperate in his plea.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm and your willingness to fight, Draco, but I can’t allow you to leave Hogwarts just yet.”

As Draco opened his mouth to protest, Lucius raised a hand, effectively silencing him. “Hear me out, Son. There are very important reasons for you to stay right where you are. It will make you better prepared for whatever is to come, and I’ll not support sending you out without being fully ready for the challenges that you will be forced to meet.”

Draco’s immaturity began to show as he crossed his arms over his chest and his facial expression could only be described as a sulk.

“There are some things you should know, Draco, before this discussion goes any further. First, no one has ever taken the Dark Mark before they reach the age of sixteen, and no exceptions will be made for you on that account, so regardless of any other factor, you will need to wait until June. I’ll not have you lazing about the Manor until then. You need to continue your education, and you will do that at Hogwarts, where you can be useful in other ways. Second, your mother and I are practical people. We recognize that we must plan for any number of contingencies and possibilities, and in light of that, we are not ready to allow you to make such a momentous decision until we have weighed all the factors and given you appropriate counsel. You are not of legal age yet, and you must have our consent to leave school. We will not give it at this time.”

Draco’s anger had begun to build as he believed his plans to be going up in smoke. His father was not being supportive, and was actually refusing his wishes without truly listening. He grew more frustrated and upset by the moment as his father spoke, and he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I can see that you are unhappy with my decision, Draco. You’ve never been very good at hiding your emotions from me, even when you could fool everyone else. Please trust me that I am looking out for your best interests, and what will secure the most illustrious future for you. I recognize that you are frustrated with the environment at school and the number of people whose picture of the future of the wizarding world is far from our own ideal. I know you don’t want to hear this, but we must be realistic. There is a small possibility that the other side will prevail and we must be positioned to survive no matter what. I’m not asking you to change your views, but I’m asking you to consider being slightly more circumspect in expressing them at school so that our family has some, uh, flexibility in how we approach delicate situations.”

Lucius paused to gauge Draco’s reaction. It wasn’t positive.

“Are you telling me that your support for the Dark Lord is not complete?” Draco spoke through clenched teeth.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Draco. I’m saying that the perception that we are slightly more neutral would be a more politically expedient position until other factors fall into place.”

“Father, I have no choice but to follow your orders in remaining in school, but hear this now. I am immensely unhappy about this, and I will do whatever I can to change your mind about allowing me to do what I want.”

“Understand this, Draco. Regardless of your unhappiness at the moment, I am doing what’s best for you and for our family. You will follow my lead, and in that, your future will be secured. If things develop as I believe they will, and you still want to take the Dark Mark at the end of this school year, I will reconsider my decision. Remember that sometimes the best service to our cause may not appear to be what you think it is. In the meantime, you can be of service by keeping your eyes and ears open, and reporting back to me what you see, especially with regard to Dumbledore, Potter, and anyone else who seems especially vocal and supportive of changing Wizengamot rules. Consider that your interim mission. We’ll not discuss this any further until circumstances develop; I’ll expect you to comply with my decision.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at his father in displeasure and responded in the only way he could, for now. “Yes, Father.”

Neither Malfoy male spoke again until they arrived at the Manor some forty-five minutes later.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa Malfoy could not have been more disappointed if Draco had not come home at all. When he’d arrived with his father, Draco’s mood had been so morose that he’d only nodded a greeting to his mother and dashed off to his bedroom. That had been two hours ago and he still hadn’t emerged. Lucius had retreated to his study and had also been silent about their trip home and any conversation they’d had. Narcissa was still angry with her husband, but she was anxious to know what had happened between her son and husband that had both of them so infuriated. She decided that her best bet for now was with Lucius, and she knocked on the door to his study, awaiting admittance.

Within a few moments, Lucius opened the door and invited his wife into his study with a sweep of his arm. As she passed by him, Narcissa noted the distinct aroma of Ogden’s finest. For Lucius to be drinking this early in the day, it had not been a pleasant conversation with their son.

“What happened?” she pressed.

“Well, my dear, it appears you weren’t wrong to be worried about Draco. He asked me for permission to leave Hogwarts and take the Dark Mark…”

“No!” she gasped.

“Don’t worry, I told him that he couldn’t do that. But I must say that he was surprisingly adamant about his wishes. He’s become quite ardent in his support of the Dark Lord, so much so that I had to ask him to moderate his vocal expression. While I was waiting for Draco at the train station, I thought about our earlier conversation, Narcissa. You know I’m a pragmatist above all, regardless of my desire to maintain the position of supremacy that purebloods currently hold in our society. I’ve come to agree that it is too soon for Draco to have any overt role in the Dark Lord’s fight. I’ve told him that the most he’ll be allowed to do for now is to observe and report back on activities at Hogwarts. You should know, however, that his views have become much more solidified and he’s chomping at the bit. He’ll make his own choices soon, Narcissa, and there will be little that I can do to stop that. You need to be prepared that he’ll ask to be branded with the Mark in June.”

“And you need to know that I will do everything in my power to stop it, Lucius.”

Narcissa turned and left her husband standing in her wake. She climbed the grand stairwell toward Draco’s room, hoping to get at least a few moments to take the measure of what had happened to her son over the last few months. She knocked on his door and tried turning the knob, only to find it securely locked.

“Draco, it’s Mother. May I come in?” she requested.

She got no response, but did hear him moving about and he opened the door a few moments later. His greeting wasn’t exactly warm. “Suit yourself.”

She followed him in to the large rectangular space, taking a seat on the armchair nearest his bed, where he’d reclined immediately after admitting her. “Your father tells me that you had a difficult conversation earlier. Are you all right?”

“No, and I don’t want to talk about it,” came Draco’s sullen reply.

“Fine, dear, I understand that you’re upset. I just want you to know that your father and I only want the best for you, and we’ll make decisions that we feel are appropriate to support those ends. You may not understand our reasoning now, but you will later. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but there are better ways to promote our beliefs that will provide you with more options and a more secure future. I hope you can accept that. We love you, Draco and only want the best for you.”

He grunted in reply, refusing to make eye contact or engage in anything resembling conversation.

“Dinner will be served at seven o'clock. I expect you to be there.” Narcissa rose and left her son to his thoughts.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Malfoy family dinner that night was a silent, sullen affair. Draco moved pieces of food around on his plate, but ate almost nothing. Lucius ate ravenously without commentary. Narcissa just picked at her meal, but drank deeply of the rich burgundy wine that had been served. She desperately hoped that this was not a foreshadowing of the dinner that was planned for the next evening.

Twenty minutes after being seated in the smaller family dining room, Draco asked to be excused and was dismissed by his father with a curt nod. He retired to his room and indulged in his favorite chocolate truffle confection before settling in to bed for the night.

In another wing, Draco’s parents sipped cognac in silence, both staring into a crackling fire. Narcissa had overseen the final touches on Yule decorations hours earlier and made decisions on the menu for the Christmas Eve dinner. Gifts had been purchased and wrapped; house-elves would place them under the tree in the ballroom after midnight tomorrow. Every mundane preparation that could be made had been. There was nothing left to do but wait. Narcissa sighed deeply in anticipation of what was certain to be a strange and stressful evening.

Lucius was roused from his wool-gathering by his wife’s audible exhalation. “What’s wrong, Cissy?”

“Nothing different than what’s been wrong for the past few days, Lucius. I’m worried about Draco, and terrified that Bella will do something tomorrow to make the situation worse than it already is. I wish we could just cancel the dinner and run off to Milan for a few weeks.”

“They’d find a way to follow us, you can be sure,” Lucius replied without amusement. “I honestly don’t believe they’ll actually do anything, Cissy. I think they want to see what Draco has to say for himself, and with all the subtlety of a brick to the face, encourage him to actively support the Dark Lord.”

“Well, that’s just grand,” Narcissa retorted sarcastically. “I’m going to bed. I can’t think about this any longer; it will drive me around the bend.” Draining the last of her cognac, she left the room to ready herself for bed – in a guest room for another night.

Lucius sighed, poured himself another drink and stared into the fire again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Christmas Eve morning dawned gray and cold, not unlike the mood of the mistress of the house. Draco had made a brief appearance in the sun room for tea and toast, and then disappeared to his room again. He hadn’t spoken with either parent since his mother’s visit to his room the afternoon before. Stewing in his own anger was giving him a headache, but he wasn’t ready to stop sulking – it was a great way to annoy his parents.

He spent the next hour attempting to read a book, but not a single paragraph registered in his brain beyond presenting an organized collection of vowels and consonants. His thoughts were too distracting, too disturbed to concentrate. Draco couldn’t believe that his father hadn’t approved of his plan; he’d felt certain that he would be pleased and supportive. He’d have little choice but to comply with his decision, but Draco didn’t have to be happy about it. He’d find ways to express his opinions and further his agenda without Lucius’ help or approval. The next couple of hours were spent contemplating ways to covertly act on his growing hatred of those who would take away his birthright.

Around four o'clock that afternoon, Draco heard a sharp rap on his door, and heard his mother call out to him. “Draco, we’re having guests for dinner. Be dressed and ready by six o'clock to receive your aunt and uncle.”

For the first time in two days, Draco’s spirits perked up. He didn’t know either Bellatrix or her husband Rodolphus very well, as they’d been incarcerated in Azkaban for most of his life, but he certainly knew their avid support of the Dark Lord. Maybe this evening could hold some promise after all. With a burst of energy and enthusiasm, Draco bolted into his bath, showered, shaved what little blond fuzz had appeared on his chin and upper lip, and styled his silky blond - and utterly unmanageable - hair with the ever-present gel he’d preferred for the last two or three years. Once properly groomed, Draco selected his favorite charcoal gray dress robes and a crisp white Egyptian cotton shirt. Black onyx and platinum cufflinks and studs, an emerald green silk tie, and custom-made black Italian leather oxfords finished his look. He was ready thirty minutes before his mother’s deadline.

Draco was waiting outside his father’s study when he heard the Floo activate, heralding the arrival of his aunt and uncle, and he hoped, new allies in his quest to join the Dark Lord’s army. He actually smiled as he greeted his mother’s sister, which prompted Bella to grin with satisfaction, Narcissa to cringe with fear, Rodolphus to smirk knowingly, and Lucius to squint with confusion. It would be an interesting evening, of that there was no doubt.

Cocktails were served in the drawing room, followed by a dinner of prime rib of beef, jacket potatoes, roasted asparagus, a fine burgundy, and a mouth-watering crème brulee with espresso for dessert. After dinner, the small group gathered in the ballroom, where Narcissa entertained them with a selection of classical music on the piano. Draco had been allowed a small glass of champagne in recognition of the festive evening, and each of the adults had had their flutes filled continuously by attentive yet somehow invisible house-elves. While dinner conversation had been limited to the fine quality of the food and drink, now that the music had stopped and drink was flowing more freely, Bella saw an opportunity to probe her nephew’s opinions, and to test how well her potions and spells had taken hold.

In a voice that was far too bright and cheery for the topic, she asked, “Draco, darling, how are things going at Hogwarts this year?”

That was all it took for the dam to break, and Draco spilled out all his frustration, anger, and resentment against Mudbloods and blood traitors. He railed against the constant scrutiny and inspection, and seethed over the school administration’s obvious prejudice against maintaining pro-pureblood policies. Bella was so pleased.

Just after midnight, gifts were exchanged and treats consumed. Among the broad selection of confections were Draco’s favorite chocolate and nut truffles. As he retired for the evening an hour later, Draco thought that this had been his best Christmas Eve ever. He fell asleep with a satisfied grin.


	12. Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco is called upon to tend to Hermione's injuries in a more personal way, here. Might be a bit... cringe-worthy.

It was getting late and Draco was hungry and thirsty, and had just realized that he hadn’t even had water to drink all day. No wonder he’d felt so sluggish. He guessed that Granger would also need some sustenance soon, but he didn’t know how to prepare any of the canned foods he’d found. Once again, he’d need some guidance from his patient. That thought brought him up short. Just when had he started thinking of her as his “patient” and not his “victim” or even just “the Mudblood,” as he’d mentally catalogued her for years?

It wouldn’t be long before he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a warm bed and sleep for ten hours straight. The only thing preventing him from doing that was the rapidly falling temperature; he’d prefer not to freeze to death in his sleep. Forestalling that would require that he wake Granger at least one more time now that he’d located what he believed to be a furnace. He wondered if she had any idea about just why the eckeltricity was working, and what impact that would have on getting the furnace to start. Now that he had light, it would be much easier to deal with whatever other problems they would face, but there was no guarantee that heat would immediately follow.

Deciding that he did need to take care of his parched state, Draco grabbed the remaining glass tumbler from the kitchen and rinsed it out much as he’d done with Granger’s a few hours earlier. He filled it and drank the whole glassful, then refilled it and gulped that down, too. The cold water was refreshing and invigorating, but he knew he’d need food soon. Eating cold food out of tins was not beneath him if it meant survival, but he needed to be able to open the cans first. Granger again. How little he knew about this world had struck home one more time.

Now that he’d taken care of that basic need, he recognized that he should tend once more to Granger and get her input again on how to get that furnace started. He knocked on her door and opened it slowly when she didn’t acknowledge his request for entrance. She was sleeping deeply, her breathing even, if a bit shallow. He wondered about internal injuries that were hinted at by the bruises that had begun to form on her torso. He’d never deserve her forgiveness, he thought.

He sat on the side of her bed, and touched her arm lightly. “Granger, wake up. I need to talk to you,” he whispered. She didn’t stir, and he sighed, wishing he didn’t have to rely on her so heavily to function in this environment. Grasping her arm with a little more pressure, Draco called her name again. “Granger, wake up.”

This time, she responded with a startled cry, flinching away from his touch. He couldn’t really blame her, he admitted. He tried to calm her with a soft voice and by backing away from her physically. “It’s okay, Granger. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

She opened her eyes, fear evident, but she calmed fairly quickly and her breathing slowed to a normal rate within just a moment or two. “Thorry, jus thtartled,” she offered sheepishly. “Did you find a furnath?”

“Yeah, I think I did. It’s about three feet tall, maybe a little more, and it’s connected to another round metal thing, also about the same height. That has pipes coming up through the floor into the cottage, and there are pipes going from the rectangle thing along the ceiling to a big tank. The tank has a gauge on it that shows three-quarters full. Does any of that mean anything to you?”

“Yeth. The round thing ith a water heater. It thoundth like an oil-fired furnath, and there’th plenty of oil in the tank. Juth need to fire it up.”

“Well that sounds great, Granger. Uh, how do I do that? Remember I’m pretty clueless around Muggle stuff.”

“Thermothtat?”

“Thermostat? I think I’ve heard the word, but I wouldn’t know one if I fell on it. What does it look like?”

“Round dial with numberth, on the wall - could be anywhere in the houthe. Juth turn it to the temp you want.”

“Okay. That sounds simple enough. Hang on for a minute while I go look for it, will you?”

“You think I can go anywhere, Maffoy?” she glared.

“Um, yeah, right. Sorry.” He blushed, and then hitched a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction he was heading – out of the room, and as quickly as possible. His ears were scarlet red.

He wandered through hallways and open areas in search of the round dial Granger had described, and found nothing near the bedrooms or in the sitting room. Finally, he located what had to be the item she had indicated on the wall just outside the kitchen, closest to the door heading into the basement. Following her directions, he turned the dial to the number “22” which should make the place nice and toasty. Feeling inordinately proud of himself, he went back to the bedroom to tell Granger about his triumph.

“Hey! I found it, and turned the dial to 22. We’ll be warmed up in no time,” he boasted.

“Did you hear the furnath thtart?” she questioned.

“Uh, I don’t know. What would that sound like?” he asked, his ego now feeling slightly deflated.

“Hard to dethcribe. Kind of a clunk, then a roar. It’th pretty loud. Open the bathement door.”

“Okay, I’ll go check.” He left on his mission and returned less than two minutes later, looking crestfallen.

“I didn’t hear a thing. It’s as quiet as an O.W.L. study session down there.”

Granger looked beyond disappointed, and he thought she might cry any minute.

“Don’t be upset, Granger, we do have one other option if you can bear with me for a couple more minutes.”

“What’th that?”

“There’s a fireplace. I just don’t know how to start it without my wand. Do you know how?”

“Yeth. That’th really eathy. But before, can I have water? Very thirthty.”

“Sure, I’ll get that for you right now.” Retrieving her glass from the floor where he’d left it after she’d first awoken, he returned to the kitchen to fill it. Just for kicks, he decided to see if the plates he’d set outside had frozen yet, but was disappointed to find only a parchment-thin skim of ice on the still mostly-liquid water. They’d need another hour or two to be usable, but it definitely hadn’t been a bad idea. He’d let her know that it would be coming in a while.

“Hey, Granger, I had another idea that will help you out in a while,” he began as he re-entered the room. “How would you feel about some ice?” He actually grinned at her.

“Ithe? How?” she wondered, taking the glass from him, and able to drink without his assistance this time, though it was clear she was moving with a great deal of difficulty.

“I put some water in plates and put it outside on the porch to freeze. Should be ready in an hour or so. I’ll give you some for your tongue and your, uh, you know, as soon as it’s ready.”

“Geeth, Maffoy, after everything, I think you can thay ‘vagina’. It’th not a bad word, it’th a body part, juth like an arm,” she needled.

“Um, okay. Whatever you say, Granger.” He blushed again. “You know, you are speaking much better than you were earlier.”

“Yeah, thtill hurth, though.”

“Sorry again. Now, what do I have to do to start the fireplace?” He focused them back on the business at hand.

“Uh, one other thing before that,” she stopped him once again.

“What?” he queried, with only the tiniest hint of exasperation.

“I have to go.”

“Yeah? Me too, but we’re stuck here, Granger, if you’ve forgotten.” He smirked at her.

“No, Maffoy, I have to _go_.”

“Oh, shit.”

“No, pee.”

He actually had enough of a sense of humor to laugh. “I didn’t mean that literally, Granger. You’ve heard of a turn of phrase, I assume?”

The impish look on her face told him that he was the one who’d been had in that particular exchange.

“Twit,” he teased, rolling his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“I think you have to hep me to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” He moved closer to the bed and removed the blankets from her, causing her to shiver slightly. “Do you think you can stand?”

She tried to shift her legs to the side of the bed and moved them all of a couple of inches before crying out in pain.

“I’d say that’s a ‘no,’” he muttered. “I’m going to have to lift you up and carry you, apparently.”

Through the tears in her eyes, Hermione nodded in agreement. She relaxed her body as much as she could, and allowed him to slide one arm under her knees and the other under her upper back. He lifted her slight body easily and carried her the ten feet to the bathroom, being careful not to whack her head or legs on door jambs. Once inside the small space, Draco had to maneuver carefully to get her close to the toilet without causing further damage, but he was able to get her into position without too much contortion.

“Can’t balanthe on my legth. Need help with the panth, Maffoy,” she whispered.

His reply was merely a nod. He quickly discovered, though, that this was a task easier said than done. “Granger, for this to work, you’re going to have to hang on to something so you won’t fall down.”

A two second survey told her that there was nothing nearby that she could even reach, never mind hang onto for balance. The sink, shower stall, and window were all on the opposite wall. “Um, what, Maffoy? Nothing clothe.”

He glanced up and confirmed her observation. “Uh, I guess you’ll have to put your arms around my neck, then. I don’t see any other way to do it,” he said apologetically.

She did as he instructed and wrapped her arms around his neck as loosely as she could while still maintaining balance. He reached up to untie the drawstring at her waist and tug the jogging pants down her legs toward her knees. The dampened towel was still wedged between her tightly clenched thighs.

He looked up at her from his kneeling position and glanced back down to the towel. “Granger,” he rasped, “you’ll have to, uh, let go and then I can help you sit.”

Understanding his instruction, she released the tension in her quadriceps and the towel fell away, trapped momentarily in the legs of her pants. Draco disentangled it and tossed it to the sink. To both their great relief, there was only a small circle of blood staining the center of the fabric. It appeared that her internal bleeding had at least slowed, if not stopped.

Draco deposited her as carefully as he could on the toilet seat and her arms fell away from his neck. She leaned backward a little, resting her weight against the tank, a pained look crossing her features. She gratefully noted that there was a small roll of toilet tissue in the holder attached to the wall behind her. “Okay for now,” she breathed.

Draco took this as the dismissal it was and left to give her some privacy, closing the door behind him. “I’ll wait out here. Just call me when you’re done.” He leaned against the wall to wait.

Her business didn’t take long, but after a few moments, Draco heard a startled cry followed by a moan. Without thinking, he flung the door open and found her staring at toilet tissue that was soaked in bright red blood. She looked terribly pale, and he thought she might pass out. “No,” he breathed, and in less than a second, he was at her side, holding her up as she slumped slightly.

The bloodied paper dropped to the floor and she whimpered, “Hep me.”

Draco lifted her and deposited her on the bed, the jogging pants still tangled around her ankles. “What happened?” he asked under his breath, the question more rhetorical than directed at Granger.

She heard him, however, and attempted an answer. “Upright. I’ve been rethting; blood pooled.”

He realized that she’d still been bleeding and now, gravity had happened. She was not out of the woods yet. “What should I do for you, Granger?”

“Not thure,” she gasped out. “Maybe lift my hipth. Compreth again.

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough, Granger. You’re bleeding from the inside, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I think,” she mumbled.

“Doesn’t it require some kind of pressure to stop bleeding? I remember Madame Pomfrey holding wounds tightly before using her wand to heal them.”

“Yeth, prethure heps.”

“I’m at a loss. How can you get pressure on the, uh, inside? I’m no Healer, but I’d guess that, uh, whatever I did to you caused some kind of tear or cut, uh, in there. How can I fix that, Granger, huh, how can I fix that?” Draco sounded panicked and nearly hysterical.

She gulped, stunned at how upset he’d become, at his blatant display of distress. If he didn’t calm down, there was no way he could help her, and this would turn out badly. “Draco.”

Well, that was enough to shock him into silence.

“I need your hep. Pleathe?” she implored.

His eyes were wide and mouth open with astonishment. He couldn’t meet her eyes, and he mumbled in reply, “Of course.”

“Gauthe,” she instructed.

He nodded, and reached the short distance over the small bed to grab the roll that he’d left on the desk. He seemed unable to speak over the lump in his throat.

Hermione seemed to be losing strength, losing her battle for consciousness. She spoke in barely a murmur, “Ro it tight. Put it inside. Find the wound. Press hard.”

With that, her eyes rolled back and she passed out, whether it was from pain or blood loss, Draco didn’t know.

His hands were shaking violently, and he dropped the gauze on the bed, his fingers unable to maintain his hold on the soft material. A violent burst of pain flashed behind his eyes, and he cried out in agony. “Now’s your chance! Finish her off!” the ugly voice in his mind taunted. “Do it! Do it! Now!” it commanded. He watched with an oddly detached horror as his left hand reached for her slender, bruised neck, as though controlled by someone or something else. He barely felt the soft flesh under his fingers as he tightened them ever so slightly, delivering the tiniest bit of pressure.

He gasped aloud as real awareness seemed to slam back into him, and he withdrew his hand slowly, leaving her skin in a near caress. “Oh Merlin, what’s happening to me?” he wailed. She’s given me her trust, and I try to kill her again. What type of beast have I become? Draco despaired.

He scrambled away from the bed, away from Granger and ran to the sink, turning the faucet on full blast. Filling his cupped hands with the icy water, he splashed his face repeatedly in an attempt to rid himself of the image behind his eyes, the image of his hand around Granger’s throat, squeezing.

“I have to help her. I have to. I can do this,” Draco coaxed himself. He looked at his reflection in the mirrored cabinet above the sink and saw fear mingled with determination. He’d pledged not to hurt her again, and he’d nearly given in to the ghastly impulses that were urging him to destroy her. A different voice, quiet and soothing, told him to heal himself by healing her. Where that compulsion arose, he had no clue, but he kind of liked the idea. He fingered the damp towel that he’d left on the sink’s edge and rinsed it with cold water, wringing out the excess liquid. He would need this, certainly. With a resolved breath, he returned to the bedroom.

He sat beside her and took her small hand into his own, stroking it nervously, rapidly, in an attempt to provide some comfort to her. He murmured quietly to her, pouring out his promises and fears, “Granger. Hermione. I know you asked me to help you, and I will, I swear. But you have to understand, this is really difficult. Me touching you there, especially after, well you know; I don’t want to hurt you again. I keep hearing these voices inside my head. I’m trying really hard to ignore them. But they want me to kill you. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be that beast. See, it’s easier when you’re awake. If you talk to me, I can see you as another person, someone with a brain and a heart and a soul. I’m so afraid that I’ve already lost mine. So here’s the thing, Granger. I don’t want to be soulless; I want to help you, but can I ask you for help too? Will you help me keep my soul? Please, Granger?” He didn’t realize that he’d been crying until a hot, salty tear crossed his lips and dropped onto their joined hands. “Please, Granger, don’t let me lose my soul.”

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to work up the courage to touch her. His breathing seemed as labored as hers at times, and he was sweating profusely despite the cold temperature in the room. Hermione’s fleece pants had still been tangled around her ankles, so that impediment had been easily removed. As he lifted her right knee, he tried to inspect her vulva in a clinical manner, assuming the “Healer Draco” persona he’d joked about when he’d tended to her wounds after she’d awakened. He was glad to see that some of the swelling had gone down – it seemed that the cold towel had helped after all. There was still significant bruising, but that would probably take days to fade without the aid of magic. The tear wound at the entrance to her vagina had not reopened. That was good, too. But it was also bad. It meant that the bleeding was definitely coming from inside the vaginal cavity. He closed his eyes briefly, tilting his head back and talking to himself, “You can do this, Draco. It will help her in the long run. You can do this.”

Draco knew enough about female anatomy to know that penetration without lubrication was just about impossible if you were not trying to hurt someone. His throat clenched as he recognized the irony in his thoughts. It was also easier if both legs were raised, which tilted the pelvis up and the vaginal passage down. If he was going to insert the gauze and deliver the pressure that she’d said was necessary to help stem the bleeding, he was going to need to ease her vagina open without further injuring her. It was still quite swollen, he’d guessed, and it wouldn’t easily admit a single digit, even considering the blood as a possible lubricant.

First things first, he thought. He placed her right foot in a flat position on the bed, knee bent as tightly as possible to draw the foot closer to her buttocks. He then repeated the procedure with her left foot, and gently pushed her knees outward. He was struck by two things: first, how crude and vulgar this position would look if someone were to walk in on them, and second, that this is exactly the position a woman would take to deliver her baby. “Oh, shit!” he screamed. He had no idea if - and seriously doubted that - he would have taken contraceptive precautions when he’d penetrated her the day before, and he was reasonably certain that he’d ejaculated. She could actually be pregnant with his baby right now. The concept made him nauseous, not so much that she’d have his baby but more than anything, he thought, he couldn’t put her through that - being pregnant with her rapist’s spawn. It would be the ultimate injustice. He wondered if she’d contemplated that possibility in one of her waking moments. He could only imagine how terrified that would make her. Shaking his head against the image of Hermione Granger delivering an unwanted child with white-blond hair and gray eyes, he decided it would be much saner to take one step at a time. Stop her bleeding, save her life. Don’t borrow trouble before its time.

Now that there was a clear path, of sorts, Draco thought he’d need to find a way to get her vaginal muscles to relax, or he’d never get the gauze where it needed to go. His sexual experience was not vast, but he did know a couple of ways to achieve that goal. They were inherently carnal though, and that was certainly not appropriate for this situation. He considered using the wet towel to further reduce swelling; he felt quite sure the ice was not yet ready for use. That would work fine for the vulva, but it wouldn’t help to relax her vaginal walls. He racked his brain for several minutes, searching for ideas that would solve the problem and absolutely nothing came to mind, especially considering the limited resources available to him. There was nothing in the house that could be used as a lubricant, absolutely nothing.

Five minutes later, he realized that he truly had no choice; he was going to need to do something about this the old-fashioned way. He issued a quiet apology in advance and licked his index finger. She was so deeply asleep – or unconscious – that he didn’t know whether this would even work. He hoped that her body’s autonomous responses would react as they would if she were awake. Regardless, he had to try.

He began by gently stroking her labia, barely touching her outer folds, top to bottom. He was careful, almost loving in his touch while still trying to maintain his clinical detachment. She would hate him so much more if she knew he was doing this, he thought. Up and down, up and down, over and over again, increasing and decreasing pressure along the way. He’d felt no response, no indication that she was feeling his intimate touch. He kept at it for a few more moments, licking his finger now and again to provide moisture as required. He had a quick flash of what could only be called perversion, thinking it would be easier if he could just put his mouth on her, and rejected that thought as rapidly as it came. The idea of her blood in his mouth was just… sick, he scolded himself. He resumed touching, gently traveling both her outer and inner labia now, all the while intently watching the entrance to her vagina for any sign of twitching or relaxing, or something. Anything to tell him that this was going to help. Merlin, how utterly bizarre this is, he thought.

Keeping this up for several minutes made it feel slightly less odd, but Draco had had no indication that he was making any progress. There was one more thing he could try but, Merlin, that would just be too much. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t – she’d Avada him at the very first opportunity if she ever found out. His inner deviant had other ideas, however. She’ll never know unless you tell her. Do it. You know you want to, just to see her respond to you. “No.” He shook off the sick creepy part of him that would actually take that liberty in her totally vulnerable state.

Five more minutes with no results was all it took for the deviant to get his way. Draco rationalized his decision with the fact that he’d been as intimate with her as anyone could get. What real harm could this do, especially if it worked and allowed him to get the gauze where she needed it to go? Thoroughly wetting his right index and middle fingers in his mouth, Draco used his left hand to separate her labia at the top, exposing the little nub that brought most women to ultimate pleasure. He touched her there, circling lightly, and barely making contact. “I know, I’m a real rat bastard,” he told his conscience as it protested his actions. “But honest to Merlin, it’s for her. I swear on my magic,” he whispered, hoping that this would make things right with whatever higher powers there might be.

He kept circling, adding the tiniest fraction of additional pressure and was flabbergasted when he saw her hips twitch upward into his touch. He kept up the motion for a few seconds longer to be sure he’d seen what he’d thought, and was rewarded with confirmation. Her vaginal walls would certainly be relaxing enough now to allow a tiny bit of penetration. One slim finger was all he needed. “Thank Merlin,” he exclaimed, his eyes turned skyward. “Okay, Granger, I don’t need you to orgasm - that would probably make things worse, so here we go.” He withdrew his fingers from her clitoris and, as gently as he could, inserted his long index finger inside her vagina in an attempt to locate the tear or cut that was the source of her bleeding. It wasn’t difficult to find; it appeared to be an extension of the tear that he’d made at her entrance. She winced in her sleep as he touched it. As rapidly as was humanly possible, Draco tightly rolled the gauze that he’d abandoned on the bed earlier. Using his left hand to re-enter her vaginal opening, he tightly packed the gauze against the wound with his right, withdrawing the single digit as the material was secured in place by her tightening muscles. He felt an odd compulsion to kiss her there once the job was done; he resisted.

Once he’d covered her with the blanket and his cloak as a temporary measure to keep her warm, Draco went to the bathroom to wash his hands of the blood that had stained them while tending to Granger. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself when he felt a twitch of arousal in his groin as the image of her sex responding to his touch swept across his brain. “Sick fuck,” he scolded. Healthy young man, his inner voice retorted. “Am I to be constantly at war with myself?” he asked to the heavens.

He stalked out of the bathroom and into the sitting room, dropping onto the sofa in both physical and mental exhaustion. As his gaze fell on the cold, empty fireplace, his heart sank. “She didn’t get to tell me how to start the fire,” he moaned aloud. “What can I do? We can’t go another night without heat.” He began pacing back and forth before the hearth, mulling over what he might do to keep them both warm. The furnace didn’t work, and he didn’t know how to start the fire. He’d seen no other options. As one thought hit him, he had to laugh. “If nothing else I’ve done made her want to kill me, this surely would.” With his next breath, he realized that it was the only option left to them if Granger didn’t wake up in the next hour, which had as much chance of happening as the late Professor Snape rising from the grave to dance a salsa with Harry Potter. Draco sighed deeply, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One hour later, Draco was standing over Hermione’s still form, debating whether he should try to wake her or just make the decision that was awaiting him. She’d not shifted her position a single inch since he’d left her, and he was once more grateful to see the steady rise and fall of her chest as evidence of life. The fear that one of these times she’d just never awaken from her slumber was palpable.

He decided that he owed her the courtesy of at least attempting to gain her permission for the move he believed bore no alternative. So for the fourth or fifth time – he’d lost count by now – he was sitting next to her on the small bed, touching her arm and calling her name. “Granger, wake up. Hey, Granger.” He continued for several minutes trying to rouse her, taking short breaks between attempts. After ten solid minutes, he finally accepted that his efforts would be futile, and that he had to take things into his own hands. There were a few preparations that needed to be made first, however.

Draco removed all the extra linens from the small bedroom and carried them into the larger room down the hall. He unfolded each item – extra sheets, quilt, and even towels - and stretched them across the larger bed. Returning to the smaller room, he retrieved his cloak and removed the top linens from the small bed as well. He quickly added them to the stack on the larger bed, then turned the whole collection down to allow space in the bed to set Granger down. Back in the smaller room, Draco tried to put the jogging pants back on Granger’s legs, and after several minutes of struggling and trying desperately to limit any additional injury, he was finally successful. He immediately lifted her up and carried her to the larger bed, carefully settling her in place and covering her with the stack of linens. With a sigh of relief, he walked back into the smaller room and shut off the lights.

Now comes the tough part, he thought. Walking back to the larger bedroom, Draco sat on one side of the bed, opposite where Granger lay, and removed the heavy, dirty work boots from his feet. Lifting the stack of linens, the exhausted, hungry, and confused young man crawled into the bed, resting his head on the pillow not more than a few inches from the deeply sleeping Hermione Granger, the woman he’d nearly killed less than twenty-four hours earlier.


	13. Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con sexual activity and acts of violence appear in this chapter.

_**Five Years Ago** _

The winter had been particularly cold and snowy and seemed to linger on forever. March had been true to its reputation as blustery and bitter, not unlike the young man who stalked the halls of Hogwarts looking for excuses to act out his hatred and prejudice on favorite victims. Because it had been clear that Draco was being watched, and violence of any kind would not be tolerated, he’d had to resort to more creative ways of insulting and terrorizing with words.

He’d withdrawn further from the few housemates and fewer friends who had been his companions since they were all eleven years old. He never spent time in the Slytherin common room, only visited the library when it was absolutely required, took meals alone at the end of the Slytherin House table, and had quit his position as Seeker on the Quidditch team. If Draco was not in class, he was in his room, draperies drawn tightly shut around his bed.

Draco Malfoy’s sullen behavior had not spared those few friends who had remained loyal to him because of either long-standing prior relationships, like Pansy and Blaise, or in recognition of his apparent status in the Slytherin pecking order. He was as likely to ignore or insult them as anyone else. Draco had never been described as friendly; now, even those closest to him were apt to call him cold and remote.

His only apparent contact with the outside world was with his mother and very occasionally, his father. He’d sent three or four reports of Harry Potter’s suspected activity in preparing some of their schoolmates in defense techniques. Since not much was known about details, Draco’s reports were long on suspicion and supposition, and short on facts. None of this was terribly helpful to Lucius and he largely ignored the letters except by way of noting that Draco was still committed to becoming a member of the Dark Lord’s army. Lucius did not share these letters with his wife, seeking to spare her additional concern.

The constancy of Narcissa Malfoy’s devotion to her son had not wavered, and even when he’d gone weeks without replying to her frequent letters, she wrote to him and sent him hampers full of the sweets that she knew he loved so much. Once in a while, Draco would remember to dash off a hasty “Thanks, Mum” note, but he had only managed to actually jot down a few quick sentences to her once during the whole term, leaving Narcissa even more worried and saddened than she had been over his churlish visit at Yule.

She was composing one of her weekly letters to her son when the weight of her sadness threatened to crush her. Narcissa had tried to keep her letters upbeat, loving, and gossipy as Draco had always enjoyed, but today she ached to know what she had done or neglected to do that had caused him to withdraw from her so abruptly. She could not help the warm trail of tears that coursed down her alabaster cheeks, threatening to smear the ink that she’d put to parchment.

_Why, Draco darling, have you not written back to me as you used to do? Have I done something to hurt you? Have I not been the mother you wish me to be? My heart breaks thinking that you are angry and upset with me, and I only wish to put things right between us, my sweet boy. Please tell me what’s wrong so that I can correct it. I anxiously await a letter from you._

_Your loving mother_

When he received the letter late that afternoon, Draco was a little surprised to read about his mother’s distress. He hadn’t been that different in his communication with her, he thought. He wrote back to her swiftly.

_Sorry Mother, but nothing’s wrong. I’m not angry with you. I don’t know why you’re so upset. Thanks for the hamper._

_Your son,_

_Draco_

Narcissa sat in the drawing room and sobbed for nearly an hour after reading her son’s note.

Lucius, who had witnessed her growing melancholy over the last several weeks and was privy to her utter breakdown that evening, retreated to his own study, unable to comfort or cajole his distraught wife. While she wallowed in her tears, he found small solace at the bottom of a bottle of Ogden’s, at a loss for ways to repair his broken family.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sixty miles away from the imposing Malfoy Manor, another husband and wife drew their heads together in their dark wood-paneled sitting room. The dark-haired woman reviewed the list of potion ingredients her husband had compiled, noting that a trip to the apothecary would be necessary in the morning if the next layer of additions were to be ready in time for the next shipment of treats to her nephew.

“Where did you find this research, Rodolphus?” Bella asked.

He chuckled before answering. “Believe it or not, I found it in a journal that compares potion ingredients to drugs and concoctions from the Muggle world. I love the idea of using their drugs in ways that will ultimately be deployed against them. Delicious, isn’t it?”

“It compares the addictive qualities with something called ‘cocaine,' and this is what you’ve been adding for the last two weeks to Draco’s truffles?” she confirmed.

“Yes, dear. The previous ingredient provided addictive properties, but this one is much stronger. He was likely craving the truffles quite frequently with the previous formula, but this new component ensures that he’s virtually unable to function without them. It doesn’t produce the same kind of ‘high’ that the Muggle drug delivers, but the addiction will be just as persistent,” he explained. “The result is that the other potions the confections deliver will be released into his blood stream with even greater frequency, reinforcing their effect.”

“Perfect, love, just perfect. I was so happy with our progress when we saw Draco at Yule – this will take us that much further. My sister has been complaining that he’s been ignoring her letters; I think that the suggestive spells are really taking hold as well. I’ve been working on the modified Imperius as well, and I think we’re ready to test it in the next few days. Find me a subject, will you, dear?” Bella requested.

“Not a problem. We’ve got a raid planned for Thursday, so I’ll make sure we have a Mudblood or two for you to play with,” he sniggered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Compulsion. That was the only way he could describe it. He just had to do it, regardless of consequences, regardless of witnesses. He believed it was the right thing to do. It felt like a suggestion implanted in his brain, but much more insistent. He could fight it if he really wanted to, but it was such a good idea to plunge the double-edged dagger into his daughter’s heart over and over and over again. His own wrists were the perfect next target.

Bellatrix watched from a dark corner of the dungeon. No matter what, the two Muggles that her husband had brought here tonight were not leaving alive, ever. This was infinitely more entertaining and enlightening than other alternatives, however. She felt sure that the altered form of the Imperius spell, designed to be delivered over long distances and to act as a strong compulsion rather than forcing obedience to a specific action, would be the perfect method to further control her nephew’s behavior. Another bonus was that it was nearly impossible to detect, because the modification was so new and utterly unavailable to anyone other then her husband and herself. She was most pleased.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa’s mood had begun to resemble her son’s. She had been withdrawn and uncommunicative for several days when Lucius had had enough. He used a silent Alohomora on her sealed study door and stormed in, ready to confront his recalcitrant spouse on her unacceptable behavior. What he saw when his eyes fell upon her huddled form gave him pause.

She sat on the floor instead of one of the seven cushioned chairs and settees that dotted the expansive room. Her knees were tucked into her chest, and her arms encircled them tightly. She rocked back and forth, staring blankly into the remains of a lightly stoked fire; it was finally starting to warm now that the end of March had come and the house-elves had been instructed to cut back on heating charms and roaring flames. She, however, shivered as though it were freezing both inside and out.

Lucius cleared his throat in an attempt to draw her attention, but he was not rewarded with acknowledgement. He moved to join her near the hearth and gracefully dropped his tall form to the floor, stretching his long, muscular legs out in front of him. He wrapped one arm around his wife’s shoulders, stopping her rocking. “What’s wrong, Cissy?” he whispered.

“I heard from Draco,” she replied, her tone flat and lifeless.

“And?” Lucius prompted.

“He, he,” she started, voice thick with unshed tears. That condition only remained for a second or two until the waterfall of weeping began in earnest. In the midst of her deepest distress, Narcissa released the tight hold on her knees and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

Lucius, unaccustomed to such blatant displays of emotion from his normally stoic wife, wasn’t quite certain what to do and tried to rely on clues from the distraught woman for his response. He decided that she just wanted to be held while she cried out all her fears, frustrations, and worries for their son. He turned his body so that they were facing each other and wrapped his arms tightly around her torso, bringing one hand up to stroke her soft, blonde hair. “Shhh, love. It will be alright. Shhh,” he soothed, but to no avail. It was several more minutes before she calmed enough to separate from him even minimally, and he moved his hands to her upper arms and held her in place, finally making eye contact. “What’s this all about?”

Narcissa took a deep, shuddering breath before attempting to speak. “He’s completely withdrawn from me, Lucius. I’ve been writing to him every week, just as I have for his entire five years at Hogwarts, and he’s not writing back.”

“Oh love, I’m sure he’s just been busy with school work and his friends. You know that as boys get older they tend to separate from their mothers. I’m sure it’s nothing more than that,” Lucius rationalized.

“No. That’s not it. I spoke to Mrs. Parkinson about an hour ago, and she received a letter from Pansy telling her that Draco was not speaking with his friends and was entirely keeping to himself, even to the point of taking meals alone. Draco and Pansy have been close since they were in nappies, Lucius. He’d never ignore her unless something was terribly wrong. Pansy insisted that they hadn’t had a row; he’d just stopped talking to her, especially in the last couple of weeks.”

“Could it be that Pansy is pushing for something more from their relationship than Draco is interested in giving right now? You know we’d talked about betrothing them. Possibly she’s being too forward, and Draco is rebelling at such a decision being made while he’s still so young.”

“I’m fairly certain that‘s not the case, Lucius. The Parkinsons were also speaking with the Notts about betrothing her to Theodore. It seems that Pansy is quite taken with him, and they are apparently close to finalizing the match. No, I think Pansy is genuinely concerned for our boy, whom she considers more a brother than a potential spouse.”

“Hmm, I see.”

“It’s just confirmed my concerns. It’s a good deal worse than it was at Yule, Lucius.”

“I’ll admit that I did notice that Draco was much moodier than usual,” he allowed.

“And there’s one more thing. My sister has continued her unusual interest in him. Before the holidays, she rarely mentioned Draco. You know she’s never had any interest in children, but now Draco is constantly top-of-mind? That’s worrisome in the extreme. I know that Rodolphus told you they’d leave Draco alone, but I’m convinced she’s up to something. I have no proof, but I know my sister better than I care to at times. It scares me to death.”

Lucius had no response; he held his wife just a little closer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was late afternoon when Draco opened the package that had been delivered while he ate his solitary breakfast several hours earlier. He’d had to bring the large hamper back to his room on his own; the house-elves had, stunningly, refused to deposit the delivery for him without further explanation. This was the third time that had happened, and he was getting extremely irritated with their disobedience. If they were his own, he’d have them severely punished. If he’d heard their rumblings about “horrible, Dark things in there," he’d have been insulted and incensed.

He’d been late for his first class by almost ten minutes, and Professor Flitwick assigned detention. The young Slytherin would be spending the evening assisting the professor in grading first-years’ recent essays on the theoretical differences between charms and spells. He had two hours before he had to report and decided to spend that time relaxing in the privacy of his draped and silenced bed. He finally had a few moments to sort through the items that his mother had sent.

Draco was pleased to find not one, but two, packages of the elegantly wrapped truffles he’d come to crave. There were four other types of sweets, including some lovely flaky pastries that were similar to the honey-drenched delights that they’d sampled in Greece two summers ago. They were certainly tasty, but didn’t compare to those incredible truffles. He reached for one of the silver packages and untied the lovely ribbon that was the last barrier between him and his favorite treat.

A shiver of… anticipation, he thought, ran through him as the bow came undone in his long, slender fingers. He never quite understood why, but the thrill he experienced in consuming these confections felt almost sexual. Then again, at nearly sixteen, almost everything felt sexual on some level. A smirk crossed his face, regardless of the fact that there was no one there to witness it. He decided that it would be a jolly good idea to find a witch to entertain him once his detention with Flitwick was done.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco’s detention was finally over; three dreadfully dull hours of poring over the barely coherent ramblings of first-year students was enough to make the young man want to tug his hair out at the roots. He had other ideas for his amusement for the rest of the evening however. He’d been feeling randy since early that evening and was in search of someone to help him ease his growing need. Draco’s good looks and wealth had typically meant that it was no trouble for him to find willing female companionship. What he hadn’t counted on was the alienation he had engendered amongst his classmates with his nasty attitude over the last several months and the last couple of weeks in particular.

When his self-perceived Malfoy charm failed to convince the first four young ladies he approached to accompany him to a more private location, he began to get frustrated and very, very angry. A passing fifth-year Hufflepuff became the unfortunate victim of his blinding rage and lust.

He didn’t know her name, and probably never would. The corridor was dark except for a single torch lamp about ten meters away; the shadows here were enough to ensure some privacy. He reached out a long arm and grabbed her shoulder from behind, tugging her back to his chest so that she could not see his face. He covered her mouth with his other hand and whispered harshly in her ear, “Don’t scream, and I won’t hurt you.”

She whimpered and tried to struggle out of his grasp, but he was taller than her by at least six inches and outweighed her by nearly forty pounds. He quickly took advantage of the fact that she wasn’t holding her wand and used his own to magically bind her hands and cast Silencio on her. He divested her of her wand and tossed it further into the dark corner they occupied. The power he had over her was intoxicating, and his need became painfully obvious.

“I just want to have some fun. Don’t you want some fun, too?” he taunted.

Her inability to answer was of no consequence to Draco. He saw the fear in her eyes and the recoiling of her body that told him he would not have a willing playmate. It really didn’t matter; this was such a good idea. He forced her to her knees and held her there with one strong arm. With the other hand, he unbuttoned his fly and freed his swelling penis. It wasn’t fully erect, but three or four quick strokes of his hand took care of that. He pushed his thumb into the hinge of her jaw, forcing her mouth to open, and pushed his rigid member toward her. “Suck it. And if you use teeth in any way, I’ll make you pay,” he promised.

It was clear that she had no experience with this particular sexual practice, and Draco was not getting the satisfaction he wanted. Intent on his pleasure, he shifted to hold her head in both of his hands and pushed in and out of her open mouth over and over again. It didn’t take very long for him to find his release, which was denoted by his guttural “ahhhhh” and he forced her to swallow every drop, unconcerned or oblivious to her choking sobs.

He smirked at her, trembling there on her knees, and put away his wet, sticky penis while he regained his breath. “Good girl. And we won’t be telling anyone about this, will we?” he warned. “Just for good measure… Obliviate!” He retrieved her wand as she rose to her feet, clearly confused about what she was doing in this dark corridor.

“Here, you dropped this,” he stated pleasantly as he handed the thin piece of ebony back to her. He sauntered off into the darkness and headed back to his dormitory, where he dressed for bed, ate a couple of truffles, and fell into a deep, relaxed sleep.

When Draco awoke the next morning, he noted the sticky residue on his penis and thought, “It’s been a really long time since I had a wet dream. Guess I need to find someone to play with soon.” He smirked as he got into the shower to prepare for another day.


	14. Warmth

The hours of darkness had been brutally cold. Draco had awakened twice during the night as a result of the noise from heavy sleet, snow, and wind buffeting the rickety windows. Hermione had not stirred during his brief waking interludes, and he had not tried to rouse her, concluding that the rest was necessary for her to continue healing. He’d stopped worrying, for now, about her imminent death when he’d noted that her breathing seemed less labored and more regular; he’d take that as a positive sign.

His interrupted rest had left Draco fatigued and groggy, and he’d fallen back into a deep sleep just an hour or so before sunrise. The thick cloud cover, remnants of last night’s late winter storm, prevented bright sunlight from invading their sleeping chamber. He snuggled deeply into the sheets and linens that had been warmed by their combined body heat, hoping for another hour or two of continuous oblivion.

Just forty minutes later, it became abundantly clear that he had fallen deeply into slumber again when the quiet was disturbed by a shattering shriek very near his left ear. He was so disoriented that his response was sluggish. He opened one eye, and found that – as expected – Granger had awakened to their joint sleeping arrangement unhappily. What was probably upsetting her more, he thought vaguely, was that she found his arm draped around her waist. He observed this phenomenon curiously, almost as though he had never seen an arm before, and certainly not one flung casually around the middle of a Mudblood.

“Relax, Granger,” Draco drawled, a noisy yawn escaping immediately thereafter. “Haven’t you ever moved around in your sleep? I promise it wasn’t an attempt to harass you.” He glanced at the arm that he was just now removing from her torso.

“Relax? Are you crazy? What are you doing in bed with me in the first place?” she squealed, her breath coming fast and shallow in her renewed state of agitation.

“Oh, that,” he dismissed. “You passed out before you could tell me how to get the fireplace going, and if you recall, we had no luck with the furnace. I made an executive decision to prevent us both from freezing to death. We had a big snow storm last night, you know.”

“Who appointed you executive, anyway?” she grumbled.

“Hey, you’re talking much better, Granger. Maybe we can get something accomplished this morning. I’m going to get up and use the facilities, and then we’ll see to your needs before we proceed to other issues.” He rose from the bed, replacing the linens so that she’d stay as warm as possible. “I won’t be but a few minutes.”

With that, he left the room to tend to his needs in the loo, leaving her stunned and agape in the bed. She growled in annoyance, and then as she had no real choice in the matter, settled back into the pillows to wait for Draco’s return.

She closed her eyes once again, glad to have the option rather than simply through losing consciousness. Hermione reluctantly admitted to herself that it was a reasonable decision, to have them share the bed. She just would have liked to have had some say in the matter, considering everything that had happened in the last thirty-six hours, and in the two days before that. She shook her head, still desperately confused over all the contradictory and confusing things she had experienced since she had been captured in the raid three days earlier. Horrible circumstances, unexpected allies, bare survival, abandonment, a desperate fight for life, and the oddest partnership she’d likely ever experience – all deeply connected to the man who’d raped and nearly killed her. Her head was still spinning with all of it when Draco re-entered the room.

He met her eyes briefly when she shifted to her right in search of a slightly more comfortable position. “Do you need to use the loo, Granger?” he asked. “This bathroom is bigger than the other one, so it should be easier to get you in and out.”

“No thanks, Maffoy. I’m okay for now.”

“Still having a little trouble with your ‘ells?’” he teased lightly.

“Yeah, hurts some.”

“Well, I would bet that ice I tried to make last night is truly ready now. Would you like me to get it for you?” he offered.

“That would be good,” she acknowledged.

“Okay, be right back.” He paused for a moment to retrieve the boots he’d removed the night before and with the pair in hand, departed with what might have been interpreted as a wave, but was probably just brushing away some dust.

Draco made his way to the sitting room and dropped to the sofa to don the boots before braving the elements, even given the shelter of the covered porch. He opened the front door to find a snow layer of nearly seven inches. There were slightly higher drifts along the front steps, a testament to the wind he’d heard howling for most of the night. The covered porch had small patches of snow scattered about, almost as though someone had tossed handfuls of the stuff haphazardly at the cottage’s entrance. The two plates he’d set near the door were still there, the contained water now frozen solid. He picked them up and brought them both to the bedroom where Granger was waiting for him.

“Ice coming up,” Draco announced. He went into the bathroom to get one of the smaller towels he’d left there and wrapped it around the plate. He then lightly tapped on the top with his knuckles, using enough pressure to crack the ice from its container. He removed the towel and offered the uncovered plate to Hermione, who selected a few smaller pieces to place in her mouth.

She whimpered against the extreme cold at first, but quieted as the ice numbed the pain and reduced the swelling in her tongue. She leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes while allowing the frozen element to work its natural magic. A few moments later she realized that Malfoy hadn’t moved from his position on the bed.

“Was there something you wanted?” she prompted.

“Um, not really.”

“That’s hardly a denial; out with it,” she ordered, her speech already improving as the ice soothed her pain.

“I was just wondering how you’re feeling, uh, otherwise,” Draco hedged.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, just ask if you want to know. And why would you want to know anyway, after everything you did?” she spat back at him, feeling confused and resentful that he had put her in this position to begin with.

“We’ve been through this already, Granger. I don’t remember what happened, and I feel like I need to take care of you now. I don’t know why, but I just do. So unless you can answer any of those questions for me, just accept that I’m trying to help,” he retorted, just a touch of peevishness creeping into his tone.

“That’s what you said, Malfoy. But how can I believe you? This is really fucked up, and I don’t know what to think,” she argued. “I'm sure I remember more than you do, probably a significant amount more, but there are some things that just don’t make any sense. We’re going to have to deal with this at some point, as you said yesterday, but we do have more immediate problems that need to be solved.”

“I’m guessing the ice really helped,” Draco snorted.

“What?”

“Now you won’t stop talking. I think I might have liked it better the way things were.”

At her sniff of effrontery, he raised his hands. “Hey, I’m kidding – mostly.”

If she’d been armed with her wand, that would have earned him a stinging hex, at the very least. As things were, she had no recourse but to look offended and sound annoyed. “Jackass.”

“At your service. Now, how’s everything else. Seriously, do you know if the bleeding has stopped?” he queried, his gaze darting subconsciously to her crotch.

“I don’t know either, because the damp towel makes it impossible to tell. I’m still really sore everywhere and it’s possible that I have some kind of rib injury because it hurts to take deep breaths. I feel a little less lightheaded than I did last night, and that’s probably good, but I haven’t moved at all either. Hunger will probably make that worse soon, though. Blood loss is always at the top of the list for life-threatening problems, so that’s the thing I need to be worried about most. There really is only one way to check on the bleeding right now, and that’s to look.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her conclusion. “Maybe we should do this in the bathroom. I’ll carry you there just to be on the safe side.”

“That’s probably not the worst idea you’ve ever had. I don’t think I can walk yet.”

He lifted her easily, cradling her against his chest as he moved across the room to the adjoining bath. She had wrapped her arms around his neck lightly; it just felt like a more natural position. He carefully deposited her right at the toilet, continuing to hold on to her arms at the elbow for stability.

“Do you want my help to tug your pants down?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I have a choice,” she paused before continuing. “By the way, Malfoy, how did you manage to get the gauze in place?” she asked, trying to meet his eyes.

He flushed crimson and turned his face away from her. “You really don’t want to know, Granger. Trust me on this. Just leave it be.”

She eyed him suspiciously but decided it was probably better to follow his advice, for the moment. She huffed impatiently but acquiesced, “Fine – for now.” She balanced against him while he bent to tug the fleece garment down over her hips, thighs, and knees to drop finally to her ankles.

“Moment of truth, Granger,” he said quietly, looking up to gain her permission to remove the towel.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she replied.

He gently tugged on the towel as she released the tension in her quadriceps, allowing the damp terry cloth to fall away. Both of them hesitated just a moment before inspecting for the results of Draco’s attempt at healing. A great sigh of relief escaped from each of them when they saw that there was only a small amount of blood on the towel, and it was dark and dry, indicating that it had been there for some hours. The gauze packing seemed to be doing its job.

“Alright, this is good, I’d say,” Draco offered. “Do you need to use the facilities while you’re here?” At her answering nod, he helped her to sit, then turned to leave her alone.

“Malfoy,” she whispered. “Thank you, uh, for helping me.”

Without turning back, he nodded his head once in acknowledgement then continued out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

A few minutes later, he heard her call out for him and he opened the door to check on her. “Ready to go back to bed?” he asked.

“I’m done here, if you wouldn’t mind helping me to balance so I can get the pants back up.”

“Sure, I’ll do that for you.” He knelt again at her feet and pulled the soft black material up and over her hips, securing it with the drawstring. “Back to bed?”

“Uh, didn’t you say something about a fireplace that needed to be started up?” she asked.

“Yes, it would certainly help some, especially if we can’t figure out what’s wrong with the furnace.”

“Why don’t you carry me into the sitting room and put me on the sofa for a while. That way I can walk you through what you’re doing more easily than trying to shout at you from the bedroom.”

“Well that’s eminently sensible, Granger. Let me just get my arm under your knees so I can lift you properly.” He encouraged her to wrap her arm around his shoulders so that he could get a good grip and picked her up easily. “It’s a darn good thing that you’re such a lightweight, Granger, with all this lifting and carrying. If you were Millicent Bulstrode, I’d have had to drag you around,” he ribbed.

“If I were Millicent Bulstrode, I don’t think we’d be in this situation to begin with,” she retorted, shutting him up quite effectively.

“Touché,” he mumbled under his breath.

He carried her around the corner into the sitting room and deposited her gently on the sofa, legs outstretched. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t mind a couple of pillows from the bed. It might help to keep my hips and legs elevated for a while. So if you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate it,” she answered.

Draco nodded and went back to the bedroom to get the items she’d requested. He returned with three, one that he helped her position under her head, one under her hips and the last under her knees. “How’s that?”

“Good for now, thanks. Let’s get that fire started, though. It’s awfully cold in here.”

“How about I get you my cloak or one of the blankets until it warms up some?”

“Thanks, Malfoy. That would be great.”

He went to find the cloak, which was the warmest single item that they had available, and draped it over her. “Okay. Now what do I do to get this thing going?”

“First you have to make sure the flue is open.”

“The Floo? What are you talking about? This is a Muggle house; it’s not connected to the Floo.” The look on his face was one of absolute puzzlement.

“No, Malfoy. The f-l-u-e. It’s what allows the smoke to travel up the chimney and not into the house,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “You really are helpless here, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” he grumbled. “So how do I do that? Think of this as a potions project – step by step.”

“Stick your hand in the fireplace up near the top of the box. You should feel a handle made of heavy metal, cast iron most likely.”

He did as she requested and indeed found the handle. “Okay, I have it.”

“Push it up and back toward the rear wall of the fireplace,” she instructed.

“Oh! I feel a draft coming through now!” He smiled at his success.

“Great. Now we won’t suffocate from smoke,” she teased.

“Lovely. What’s next?”

“You’ll need wood, kindling, and matches.”

“There’s wood in here,” he confirmed, pointing to the cabinet to the left of the hearth, “and more on the porch. I haven’t explored further than that, but it’s possible that there’s more somewhere outside the house.”

“Good. Now you’ll need kindling and matches.”

“Here are the matches. I found them in the kitchen. What would you use for kindling, though?”

“Well, you usually use either small twigs or newspaper.”

“We don’t have either of those in any supply here, Granger. Any other ideas?”

“Any kind of non-glossy paper would work. Did you see any books in your exploration?”

“Granger would burn a book? Are you sure you’re Hermione Granger?” he mocked.

“Very funny, Malfoy. I’d burn dozens if it meant the difference between life and death,” she replied indignantly.

They both sat quietly for a few moments, her on the sofa and him on the hearth, thinking about alternatives.

“Oh! I think we might have something!” Draco suddenly exclaimed as he jumped up from his position on the floor. He opened the drawer in the table on the left of the sofa and reached in to pull out the large book he’d found the previous day. He lifted it triumphantly and displayed it to her. “How about this?”

“A phonebook! Let me see,” she demanded, reaching out for the thick tome.

“What’s so interesting about this? It’s just a collection of names and numbers,” he protested.

Sitting up and stretching, she grabbed it out of his hands and flipped rapidly to the back of the book. “Because phonebooks have tons of information in them, and I’ll bet I can figure out where we are and a whole lot more in just a few minutes, that’s what.”

“Well, the front of the book says ‘Whitfield’ and that’s about it,” he argued, just for the sake of it.

“Good. That’s good. We're not all that far from Scotland, but quite a way from London or Wiltshire. Usually there are maps in the back of phonebooks, and information about all kinds of other resources in the area.”

“Oh joy, Granger. But we don’t have a phone, near as I can tell, so how is any of that going to be helpful to us?” he challenged.

“With the maps we can find out where resources are located so that when we can travel, we can go there. Or something. I don’t really know for sure, but it has to be helpful.”

“It’s the only paper in the house, Granger. It’s more important to get the fire started, or we’ll never be healthy enough to travel,” he countered.

“That’s not a problem, Malfoy. It’s a big book. We’ll just take pages from the middle to start the fire, and leave the important maps and whatnot in the back.” She rolled her eyes at his obtuse thinking.

“Oh. Okay.”

She handed the book back to him, and he opened it to the middle, grasping a handful of pages and ripping them out of the book.

“There. We have the kindling, the wood and the matches. Now what?”

Take some of the paper and crumple it up, then put it in the bottom of the fireplace under the andirons.”

He complied with her instruction, and waited for the next step.

“Now stack the wood across the andirons, leaving some space between them, almost like a vertical triangle. You need air to flow through the logs.” She inspected his work from her spot on the sofa. “That’s good. No more – you can always add more wood later once it gets going. Put some more crumpled paper in between the logs wherever you can.”

“Now what?”

“Matches. Strike one and light the paper.”

“Uh, Granger, I’m afraid I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how? How to what?”

“Strike a match. I’ve never done it before. Never had to. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a wizard. We use wands,” he complained defensively.

Hermione had the good grace to withhold her laughter, but couldn’t help cracking the tiniest smile. “Okay, Malfoy. Bring the box here and I’ll show you how to do it.”

He handed the small cardboard box to her and she called his attention to the side of the box. “See this? It’s rough, like sand paper. You quickly rub the head of the match against this and it lights.”

“What’s ‘sand paper?’”

“Of course you’d focus on the one unimportant thing that I said,” she muttered. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t be using any other than what’s on the side of this box, probably ever in your entire life, so don’t worry about it.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Whatever.” He took the box back from her, slid the cover open, removed one of the wooden matches, and followed her directions. He only flinched a tiny bit when the match head burst into flames. “Oh. That’s all there is to it?”

He turned to light the paper which ignited quickly, and they waited. They were fortunate that the wood in the house was quite dry; it caught afire quickly and it wasn’t more than about ten minutes before the warmth from the hearth began to radiate throughout the room. Draco had rarely felt more proud of himself.

“That feels good,” he said aloud.

“Hmmm, yes. It’s nice to be warm again,” Hermione agreed.

Draco looked at his feet. “That’s true, but it’s not what I meant.”

“Huh?”

“I meant that it felt good to accomplish something that I didn’t think I could do,” he replied quietly.

Hermione watched him intently, searching for a clue about who this new Draco Malfoy might be. He was so at odds with the young man she had known, the one who’d raped and beaten her so brutally, who’d probably even planned the raid where she’d been captured. The dichotomy between that man and the one who sat on the floor just a few feet from her now was shocking and irreconcilable. She didn’t really know how to reply to his statement, but it seemed that he was waiting for some kind of response from her; he’d been looking at her with expectation written all over his own face.

“I’d imagine so. You did well, Malfoy. You’ve always been intelligent and you did well in most of your subjects at Hogwarts, until…,” she trailed off, having second thoughts about where her comments might lead them.

“Until what, Granger?” he prompted.

“Nothing, Malfoy. Just forget it.”

“No. You were going to say something. What was it?” he insisted.

“It really doesn’t matter, Malfoy. Drop it.”

“No!” he roared, his anger flaring suddenly. He rose from his position near the hearth and advanced on her, reaching out to grab her upper arm. “What were you going to say?”

She winced as he put more pressure on her bicep, squeezing the muscle hard. “Malfoy, please let go,” she whispered.

“Not until you tell me what you were going to say,” he uttered through clenched teeth, gaining an even tighter grip on her arm.

“You’re scaring me, Draco. Why are you doing this?” she spoke softly, trying not to anger or excite him further. She was, after all, quite defenseless. She turned her eyes to meet his, keeping her expression soft and submissive.

As his eyes met hers, he blinked. His entire visage shifted, and he dropped her arm from his grasp. He stumbled backwards, fell against the wall and sank to the floor, his eyes never leaving hers, and his mouth open in shock.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What did I do? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He was rocking back and forth, repeating the phrases over and over again in a voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s okay, Draco. You didn’t hurt me. Everything is going to be fine,” she soothed in a calm and quiet voice. She’d never seen anyone have such a rapid and dramatic shift in demeanor. It was frightening; that had been no lie.

“I didn’t mean to do it. I swear I didn’t. I’m so, so sorry,” he mumbled over and over again, and Hermione was stunned once more when he began to cry. “I don’t want to be this way. I don’t know why I am. Please don’t let me be this way.” His voice was so quiet that she had to strain to make out what he was saying.

It quickly occurred to Hermione that the words he was uttering were relatively unimportant. What mattered here were the context and the message. He was crying for help, both literally and figuratively, and she was the only one here who might be able to provide it.

“Draco,” she started, “please come here. Come sit by me. Please.”

He looked at her warily, but didn’t argue with her directive. He crawled over, somehow unable or unwilling to take to his feet. He stopped just inches away, uncertain about what she wanted or just how close she would allow him to get after his outburst.

“It’s alright. You can lean against the sofa right here. Take my hand, Draco,” she encouraged, holding hers out in invitation. She clasped his hand tightly and tugged it close to her chest. “I want to say something to you, and I don’t want you to be upset. It may help us figure out what’s going on here, and it may help me to understand more about what’s happened in the last few days. Is that okay?”

He nodded, unable to find his voice.

“When we started fifth year, you were a really great student, second in our class only to me. A couple of months in, your, uh, behavior started to change quite noticeably. I’m sure you remember well that you called me a Mudblood, taunted me mercilessly for our entire first four years, but sometime in fifth year, it got worse – a lot worse. I tried to never let it show, but you terrified me. I thought you’d try to hurt me or my friends. We used to have conversations speculating about what had happened to make you change from being an annoying git to being someone we thought of as actually dangerous.”

Hermione paused for a moment and watched the expression on Draco’s face shift from fear to confusion. “We knew that the professors were watching you closely and keeping a tight rein on what you could get away with, but we all knew that you wouldn’t hesitate to get violent if you thought you could manage to avoid detection. You were caustic to everyone, even people who had been your friends since before Hogwarts, and no one could understand why. I still don’t.”

Draco sat quietly, now watching Hermione as intently as she had watched him. “I remember being angry and resentful all the time,” he acknowledged, his tone still remorseful. “I honestly don’t have a lot of strong memories of my last two years in school,” he admitted.

“Why do you think that is, Draco?” she prompted.

“I have no idea. I’ve never given it any thought, to be honest. It feels like I’m just moving through life day by day. How can that be, Granger? What have I been doing with my life?”

“Do you remember how we came to be together three days ago?” she asked, peering closely at his clouded gray eyes.

“No, I have no idea, Granger. I swear on my magic,” he confessed.

Hermione released his hand and sighed deeply, closing her eyes as terrifying memories assaulted her. “We have a lot to talk about, Malfoy.”


	15. Dark Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - This chapter contains scenes that are strongly suggestive of incest, and at least one scene of torture.

_**Four Years and Nine Months Ago** _

The end of the school year was rapidly approaching and Severus Snape was increasingly alarmed over the fortune of the young man who had once been his favorite student. A recent conversation with the boy’s father had not given him any comfort, indeed quite the opposite. The calendar’s relentless march forward would bring a horrible decision, and a destiny the professor rued for the student he cared for in spite of his ill-advised and dark obsessions.

Sixteen, he thought, so terribly young to be burdened with a fate so bleak. Sadly, the Potions professor was only too familiar with the weight that the Dark Mark placed on one’s heart and soul. He’d been young, foolish, and impressionable once, and he’d succumbed to the lure of power and belonging, regardless of the price he’d had to pay. It was bare months later that he’d come to regret his choice, and he’d spent the rest of his life serving not two, but three masters – the Dark Lord, Albus Dumbledore as his redeemer, and his own conscience – often tugged between one or both of the others. He desperately wished that he could forestall Draco’s desire to join the Dark Lord’s ranks, but it was clear that there was nothing he could do. The die had been cast, and the boy’s marking was planned in an elaborate ceremony scheduled a short two weeks away.

Lucius Malfoy had spoken privately with his long-time friend four weeks earlier, and warned him that the boy had made a formal request to take the Dark Mark, not through his father as was customary, but through his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. As a first-level blood relative, she could – and would, happily – sponsor him for induction. The elder Malfoy had been most distressed. He’d not known that Draco was in communication with his wife’s sister, and it confirmed the fears that Narcissa had expressed with increasing frequency and worry in the last few months. When he’d informed her of Draco’s request and the Dark Lord’s enthusiastic acceptance of him as an inductee, she had asked but one question of her husband: “Will you allow this to happen?” When he’d answered in the affirmative, pleading that there really was no choice to be had in the matter, Narcissa had quickly and silently packed two large trunks – without help from house-elves – and departed Malfoy Manor for an unknown location. Despite numerous efforts to contact her via owl and Patronus, he’d not heard from her since, adding to his own growing list of concerns.

The news of Draco’s planned marking was most unwelcome to Severus, and to Albus Dumbledore, with whom he’d shared the sad tidings immediately after his meeting with Lucius was concluded. Both men had felt a crushing sense of failure and sadness for the great potential lost in this bright and curious boy. It was a tragedy of enormous proportions. They had but one week left in the school term to try to influence him in another direction, but both knew at the start that their efforts would be futile. What they hadn’t accomplished in six months of diligence would not change in that short period of time. He’d be lost to them, and they’d begun to believe that they’d never had much of a chance to alter him from the course he’d apparently chosen for himself. Both men, and their colleagues among Hogwarts’ professors, would mourn for the loss. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa sighed raggedly. This was the ninth owl her husband had sent just today. She’d sent each one back unanswered and charmed to forget where it had been. After his refusal to forbid Draco’s marking, she had retreated to an unplottable Black family property in southern Italy and secured an old friend as a Secret-Keeper to prevent her sister Bellatrix from stumbling upon her location.

Letters to her son, pleading with him to reconsider his decision, had gone as unanswered as Lucius’ to her. She’d written to him seven times, each note more desperate than the last. She’d pulled out every trick in a mother’s arsenal, including liberal doses of guilt and shame, all to no avail. She knew he’d read them; each parchment had been charmed to return to her within hours if it had gone untouched, and none had come back.

She was at wit’s end with anxiety, and as angry as she was with both Malfoy men, she also missed her husband. This was one transgression in their marriage that she would not easily or quickly forgive, and would never forget, but she had also come to the conclusion that she had no other choice than to rely on him to watch out for Draco once the horrible deed had been done. Narcissa felt as helpless as she’d ever been and as resentful of her sister’s influence on Draco as her husband’s cowardice in refusing to stop this travesty. It had taken her three weeks, but she had finally come to the conclusion that she could not influence events from her refuge away from Wiltshire. She’d wallowed in her grief long enough; it was time to go home.

Before she would reunite with her husband, she had one more letter to send. She hoped her sister would be receptive to her plea.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco’s mood had improved markedly in the last couple of weeks, and his friends expressed hope amongst themselves that whatever had been the bee in his bonnet during this school year had finally taken flight. He’d actually been observed with a smirk on his face in recent days – a vast improvement over the ever-present sneers and snarls of previous months. His surprising presence in the Slytherin common room this evening emboldened two of his longest-standing friends to approach him for a chat.

“Malfoy – fancy meeting you here,” the dark-skinned, blue-eyed Zabini intoned.

With a shrug and nod, Draco acknowledged his housemates’ greeting. “Zabini, Pansy.”

“We’ve missed you Draco,” Pansy spoke, her eyes meeting his. “It’s nice to see you amongst us peons.”

He snorted in response. “Just figured it would be appropriate to say my goodbyes.”

“Goodbyes? Oh, for the end of term,” Zabini concluded.

“Nope. I’m out of here. Don’t plan to be back next year. I’ve got bigger things to do, come next week,” Draco hinted.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What are you doing as of next week?” Pansy crossed her arms over her chest and met him with a challenging glare.

“Let’s just say, I’ll be doing some service work. It’s the _mark_ of an ambitious and driven man,” he drawled.

“Noooo,” Pansy breathed. “You’re lying,”

“You can’t be serious, Malfoy. That’s some wicked shit,” Zabini gasped.

“I’m completely serious. My aunt Bellatrix is sponsoring me, and the ceremony is a week from Friday. I can’t wait. But listen, you have to keep this to yourselves – nobody else can know,” he warned, his voice in a low whisper.

“Wizard’s oath – I won’t say a word,” Zabini promised, and Pansy agreed with a nod. “What does your mother think about this, Draco?”

“Judging from the seven letters she’s sent me about it, she’s furious. She still thinks I’m twelve years old. My father hasn’t said much, but I think he’s teed off that I didn’t ask him to sponsor me. Thing is, I knew my aunt would do it; I wasn’t so sure he would,” Draco explained. “The bottom line is that the Dark Lord has accepted my petition and the ceremony is scheduled. Whatever my parents think, this is what I want, and it’s going to happen.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa was thrilled beyond measure to receive the response from her sister so quickly. This communication was long overdue, and she wept with joy at the prospect of her requested meeting bringing some success. She would be taking a brief detour before returning to Malfoy Manor; two or three days’ delay in reuniting with her husband would not do any harm and might in fact do some real good.

She called for a house-elf and gave instructions. “Prepare four days’ wardrobe and toiletries for me and pack everything in one of the smaller trunks in the storage area. Everything else can be packed up and returned to Malfoy Manor. I’ll be leaving in two hours.”

The little house-elf scurried off to do Narcissa’s bidding, and sent along a warning to her cohorts in Wiltshire that Mistress would be returning by week’s end. Master Lucius would be most pleased to hear the news.

When Narcissa appeared on her sister’s doorstep just over two hours later, the two women embraced and tears were shed. Narcissa was welcomed warmly into the home that she’d never before visited.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, sister,” she said, “and how deeply I regret what has happened between us.”

“I know, Cissy. I, too, am disappointed that it’s taken so long for us to get to this point.”

“You know that things are changing, and I find that I need my family – maybe more than I need my husband. Are you willing to hear my apologies and lend me your support, Andromeda?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The last Potions class of the year prior to sitting for exams was scheduled to be a review of the twelve major ingredients that the fifth-year group had learned to incorporate into various brews this term. Each one had at least four uses, with some having as many as sixteen. The general consensus amongst the gathered students was that this would be a very dry and dull lesson. They were proved right as Professor Snape droned on and on about each element without pause and without allowing questions from the group. Hermione commented to her bench partner for the day – Ron - that it seemed that their teacher was “phoning it in” today. She was rewarded with his puzzled look at her Muggle colloquialism.

When he finally stopped fifty-nine minutes and fifty seconds after he’d begun, the dark-haired professor dismissed the class with the exception of one student. “Mister Malfoy, I require a word with you.”

With a sigh of annoyance, Draco dropped the book bag he’d already hefted to his shoulder back to the floor beside his seat. Snape was waiting for the room to empty before beginning their conversation. It was only a short two minutes, but to Draco, it felt like two hours.

Once they were alone in the room, Snape took his seat behind the desk and cleared his throat before speaking. “Draco, your father has informed me that there will be a momentous occasion occurring one week from tomorrow. I wanted to speak with you about what’s to come.”

Warily, Draco peered at his teacher and nodded once in acknowledgement.

“How much has your father shared with you about the ceremony?”

“Nothing, Professor. We’ve not spoken about it since I received word that my request was accepted by the Dark Lord. I expect we’ll talk about it when I get home the day after tomorrow,” he replied.

Hesitating briefly, Snape posed another question, “Has anyone else shared with you what you can expect?”

With a shake of his head, Draco indicated that he’d not had that conversation with any other person.

“I see,” Snape drawled. “You are not aware, then, of what you’ll be required to do in order to earn the mark.”

“Earn it? I’m a Malfoy. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, Draco, not nearly enough. The Dark Lord will want you to prove that you are loyal to him and capable of being an, uh, effective member of his army. You will need to prove your worth.”

“How do I do that?”

Snape rose from his seat and began to pace the front of the room. He found it difficult to meet the boy’s piercing gray eyes. “You’ll be asked to perform one or more of the Unforgivable curses, Draco. On a person, possibly even someone you know. Are you prepared to do that?”

Snape was stunned to see a smirk cross Draco’s face. There was something immensely unsettling about the young man’s apparent enthusiasm for the task he’d described.

“I’m prepared,” Draco replied.

“Don’t be so sure,” Snape mumbled, but it was loud enough for Draco to hear. “It is not easy to watch people writhe in pain, Draco. It is not easy to take a life. You are still so young. I regret that your innocence will be lost so soon.”

Draco scoffed at his professor’s wistful expression. “Who says I’m so innocent? I’m looking forward to this,” he challenged. “I think you are the one who doesn’t have the stomach for doing what’s necessary. I question your commitment to the Dark Lord’s mission, Professor. You seem to be awfully chummy with Professor Dumbledore these days.”

“You insolent little whelp! How dare you question my loyalty? I am purposely close to Dumbledore to gain intelligence about his plans and actions. This is vital to the Dark Lord’s success, and you are in no place to question how he chooses to use me,” Snape growled at the young wizard.

“Whatever you say, Professor. Just know that I don’t trust you,” Draco warned. “I won’t hesitate to destroy you if I find that you are not as loyal as you claim to be.”

With that, Draco lifted his book bag to his shoulder and stormed out of the room, leaving Snape disheartened and concerned for the boy’s future and his own.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa arrived at Malfoy Manor on the day before her son was due to return home from Hogwarts. No one was there to greet her save the handful of house-elves who were busily cleaning and tending to their usual chores. She supposed it was better this way; she could settle in and prepare for what she knew would be a heated confrontation with her husband.

She called upon one of the house-elves to take her small trunk to the guest room she’d used off and on as her own retreat when she and Lucius were at odds. Narcissa felt quite sure she’d want to have her own refuge for several days to come, at the least. She settled in and decided that a long soak in a hot bath would soothe her shattered nerves. It was in that slowly cooling water that her husband found her forty minutes later.

“Narcissa,” he growled. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“I needed some time alone to cool off and to do some of my own planning and scheming, Lucius. You may have him now, but someday, my boy will find his way back to me. I’ve learned from the best, dearest, and I can be as devious as any other Slytherin you’ve ever known. Someday, I will reclaim my son from this madness. Now get out; I wish to finish my bath and dress. I’ll see you in the drawing room in an hour,” she dismissed him summarily.

In twenty-three years of marriage, Lucius had learned a thing or two about his wife, and he knew an impasse when he saw one. He’d be getting nowhere if he stayed, so he nodded his goodbye and departed the chamber as she had requested. He had things to do anyway. Draco would be home tomorrow, and there were preparations – as distasteful as some of them were - that needed to be completed for the ceremony next weekend. What troubled him greatly was the mundane and menial nature of the tasks he’d been assigned, such as inviting guests and arranging refreshments. These were not his typical duties and he’d had no luck in learning any other details about what would be happening in one week’s time.

While Lucius tended to “the family business,” Narcissa thought about the visit she’d had with her sister Andromeda as she dressed for their rendezvous. It had been emotional and wrenching for both of them. With more than twenty years of estrangement, there came resentment, anger, and misunderstandings. There had also been the heartbreak of life’s milestones missed and the regret of the loss of a once-close sibling relationship. They’d talked for hours, huddled together on a deep, comfy sofa, arms around each other, alternately laughing and crying as they shared their fears, anger, sadness, and hopes for a reconciled future. Narcissa had apologized for ostracizing her older sister over the choice she’d made in marrying Ted Tonks, and explained why her feelings and thinking were changing now.

“Andy, I’ve come to realize that some of the fervor that Mama and Papa taught us about pureblood supremacy is really just not true. Our numbers are dwindling, and there are more purebloods being born without magic. The birthrate alone is enough to convince me that there are real and natural challenges to what we thought. How many pureblood families do you know who have produced more than one child? Lucius and I tried for years to have another child after Draco was born and I achieved nothing but multiple miscarriages. And nearly a third of the children produced to pureblood couples are squibs.

"We won’t survive this way, and it’s insane to think that we can consolidate enough power in the few old families left to sustain this way of life for more than another generation. We need to face reality and change the way we live. And that’s not even taking into account that the madman behind all of this is a megalomaniac half-blood himself. The bottom line, Andy, is that my husband is dragging our son into this life and I’m afraid that it will kill him, and there's no honor in death without reason,” she’d bitterly complained.

Narcissa was grateful for her sister’s receptiveness and her forgiveness for past transgressions, but she was also realistic in recognizing that a relationship that had been so badly damaged would not be repaired with a three-day visit. It would take months for them to rebuild trust between them, but she was willing to do her part. One of her promises had been to keep their reconciliation between them; Lucius did not need to know that his wife and her middle sister had reunited, at least not yet.

Wearing an expression that was just the tiniest bit smug, she descended the grand marble staircase to meet her husband in the drawing room as they’d planned. She was feeling very little positive anticipation about this conversation. While she wasn’t setting up a shouting match, she also didn’t think this would be an exchange of pleasantries and sharing a cup of tea. She pushed open the double doors to find Lucius leaning against the fireplace, ever-present glass of Ogden’s in hand.

She pointedly glanced toward the nearly empty crystal decanter and chided her husband, “Drinking so early in the day, Lucius?”

“I find that I need as much liquid courage as I can consume these days,” he replied without hesitation.

“Too bad you didn’t have more courage months ago, Lucius, or we might not have been placed in such an untenable situation,” she observed.

“Touché, Narcissa,” he retorted as he lifted his glass to her in a salute. “But sadly, what’s done is done, and we’re set on a course that can’t be changed, at least not for some time and until there are significant developments in other arenas.”

“But in the meantime, Lucius, our son has become someone I don’t know anymore, and he’s about to pledge his service and his life to an utter lunatic. You can’t expect that I’d be happy about this, or that I’d allow this to happen without a fight.”

“If you fight it Narcissa, it will be taken out on Draco more than anyone else. You and I will pay a price, to be sure, but he will bear the brunt of the Dark Lord’s anger because he’ll be perceived as not being mature enough to control his family’s reactions to his choices. The last thing he needs now is to be viewed as weak. They will chew him up and spit him out faster than you can say ‘Merlin’s Beard.’”

Pacing back and forth, her arms waving in anger, Narcissa accused her husband, “How did you let this happen, Lucius? I thought that only a parent could sponsor someone under legal age to take the mark. How did you let her do this?”

He sighed in frustration, hoping to help her understand without angering her still further. “There are always special rules when it comes to Bella. You know how she is – she follows the Dark Lord around like a puppy and gives him the ‘favors’ no one else would dare offer. How her husband tolerates that, I’ll never fathom.” At this, Narcissa snorted in derision. “So as long as there are no insurmountable obstacles, Bella gets her way. And the Dark Lord does not recognize parental disapproval as an impediment when he wants someone in his ranks. For whatever reason, he’s decided he wants Draco, and he wants him now. With Draco apparently making the request himself, the decision was taken from us.”

“Bella has always been a little loose with her marriage vows, and Rodolphus will fuck anything that will let him in, Lucius.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her crude language, but waved a hand for her to continue. 

“How she can bear to have that, that… creature touch her is beyond me, but if that’s part of the hold she has on him, there is obviously little that we can do to influence that relationship. Why Draco, though, and why now? Since when has he been in contact with Bella, and why did he ask her to sponsor him? I simply don’t understand.”

“I can’t answer the questions you have about Draco’s contacts and motivation, as he’s not replied to my letters asking him for explanations. We’ll have to deal with that when he arrives home tomorrow. As for the Dark Lord, I asked him at our last meeting three days ago, and he refused to answer. He simply chuckled – a most horrific sound, if I’ve ever heard one – and asked me why I hadn’t offered him up myself. I had to twist the truth and tell him that I didn’t feel that Draco’s skills were ready to be of enough service to him. I’m sad to say that I don’t think he believed me, which unfortunately puts us in a more precarious position. I feel quite certain that he has something in mind for Draco, but as of now, I have no idea what that might be.”

“Well that does us a fat lot of good, Lucius. How are we to handle this situation without any knowledge of what’s motivating whom or who has planned what? We’re operating completely in the dark, and when our son’s life is at stake, that’s simply unacceptable,” she raised her voice, crossing her arms over her chest in anger and frustration.

“I couldn’t agree more, Narcissa, but I also don’t know what to do about it. I’m distressed to admit that I’m at a loss on how to proceed without more intelligence, and that’s in short supply from every source I’ve tried to tap. We may not have a choice but to wait this out and see what develops.”

“When you figure it out, Lucius, let me know. Until then, I have my own informants to contact.” She turned her back on him and retreated to her study, pondering how to get her eldest sister to tell her what she needed to know.

Lucius watched as his wife departed, poured another drink, and sank into the nearest leather armchair, staring at a fireplace that hadn’t been lit in nearly a month.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Five days had passed. Five days filled with fevered conversations and desperate letters, none of them providing any useful information or insight into what the Dark Lord planned for Draco. Bella had been especially obstinate in her refusal to share anything with her sister about how she and Draco had been in contact and what would happen when the ceremony commenced in just two more days. Narcissa was now frantic with worry and nearly paralyzed with fear.

Draco’s return home had also produced nothing helpful; he’d been quiet and solitary, choosing to spend his time locked in his room when his presence was not required for meals. When Lucius pressed him for details about how he and Bella had come to be in contact, he’d simply replied, “She’s family,” and refused further comment. He’d had one deeper conversation with his father, where Lucius had apparently given him some insights into “typical” marking ceremonies, but there was no doubt that every marking had its own peculiarities. Since Bella had taken control of this one, he could only speculate about what she’d do to either humiliate the family or create her own special sort of spectacle. Draco was eagerly anticipating the event; his father was dreading it.

They had planned a family dinner with all of Draco’s favorite foods for the night before the ceremony, possibly their last night as an intact family. It was conceivable that the Dark Lord would send Draco away somewhere for missions or training. They had no way to know. Just moments before they sat down to eat, the Floo had activated and Bella and her husband had requested that they be allowed to come through. Narcissa really had no choice but to include them in their evening plans. As most of the small group ate in relative silence, the only constant was Bella’s chattering about how glorious the following night would be. Sadly, she was incredibly short on detail and very long on hyperbole about the glory it would bring to the family and the Dark Lord. Narcissa looked as though she might vomit any moment.

When dinner was complete, Bella bent her head to Draco’s ear and whispered, “Make me proud of you tomorrow, Draco,” and slipped him a small package. He thought nothing of the fact that his aunt had given him a present of his favorite truffles. He retired to his room, and being just a little apprehensive about what he’d have to do during the impending ceremony, consoled himself with a generous serving of those incredible chocolate treats. He slept well that night. His parents, tucked into their separate beds, slept not a wink.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Narcissa arose the next morning, she was sorely tempted to bind her son with a Petrificus Totalus and kidnap him away to the unplottable property she’d used as a refuge for several weeks. Only her fear that the entire family would be murdered without a second thought stopped her rash thinking. She knew that Lucius was right when he said that they’d forever be hunted if they defied the Dark Lord now.

She was stunned to find that Draco and Lucius were both gone when she arrived in the dining room for breakfast. A note was waiting in a silver tray at her plate.

_Dearest Narcissa –_

_I’m sorry that we’ve left without telling you, but you must understand that we cannot risk any interference or outburst from you during Draco’s induction. It would mean the end for all of us, and I just cannot allow that to happen. We’ll find our way out when the time is right, I promise you. Please do not try to find us. We’ve taken a Portkey and don’t know the exact location of our meeting. Bella and Rodolphus will be meeting us there, so it’s no use to try to contact them either._

_I will be back as soon as I can, hopefully with Draco. Until then, please stay at the Manor. I’m afraid that leaving today would be ill-advised. I’ve added wards; please do not try to circumvent them._

_I do love you, and I am sorry,_

_Always,_

_Lucius_

The letter burst into flames as soon as she’d finished reading. Her husband had left nothing to chance. She dropped the burning parchment onto the silver tray and dashed out of the room to her bedroom. She curled up on the bed and wept. When she next awoke, it was late afternoon, and neither her husband nor her son had returned, and no further messages had been delivered. She wandered the house, alone and morose, until faintness forced her to seek some sustenance. She picked at her dinner, eating just enough of the fluffy cheese omelet to prevent dire hunger, and retired once again to her bedroom. She curled up on the settee to wait, and drifted off to sleep without hearing anything more from her missing men.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The ceremony was not scheduled to begin for another eight hours, but Lucius and Draco had agreed that it was best to leave before being subjected to any scene with Narcissa. It was clear to both of them that she’d do anything in her power to prevent the boy taking the Dark Lord's mark, so they simply removed that possibility from her by vacating the premises.

There were to be nine initiates today, and Draco would be the last. He would not be allowed to attend the ceremonies of the inductees prior to him, as was the practice for each successive recruit. His final preparations would get underway in another hour or so, and father and son had been isolated from any other guests to preserve the secrecy and “purity” of the moment, according to Bella’s instructions. Lucius had scoffed at that; there was absolutely nothing pure about a Death Eater induction ceremony. They were typically vulgar, violent, and bloody – unholy in the highest degree. Leave it to Bella to pervert even the language around this whole debacle. They sat in relative silence, the only disturbance having been Draco asking for the time once or twice, and Lucius inquiring as to the state of his nerves.

Finally, Lucius took a last opportunity to share his thoughts with his son. “Draco,” he started, then faltered as he searched for the best-measured thing to say, “I know that this is what you’ve decided to do, and I can’t and won’t stop you. I just want you to know that your mother and I love you very much, and we wish that you had chosen to wait until you completed your education. We’ll respect your judgment, Son, but should you change your mind somewhere along the way, we’ll understand and support that too.”

Draco nodded and accepted his father’s hand when it was offered. He said nothing. It was only five minutes later when his Aunt Bella entered the room and dismissed Lucius. “We have things to do, and you need to join the group in the meeting area.”

She was carrying a heavy brocade cloak of the deepest blue, so dark that it was barely distinguishable from black. Only the silver accents at the collar and along the edges gave off enough reflection to show the garment’s true color. There was a solid silver clasp in the shape of a great serpent fastened at the neck.

“You’ll be wearing this for the ceremony, Draco,” she instructed.

When he reached for the cloak, she pulled it back away from his grasp.

“No, you misunderstand. You’ll be wearing _only_ this. Remove the rest of your clothing, including your boots,” she added with a smirk.

He seemed a bit surprised, but was not going to question his aunt’s authority in this. She was his sponsor, and had the ultimate decision to recommend or refuse his induction; only the Dark Lord’s own word could overrule hers. He removed each article of clothing and folded them carefully, leaving a pile of fabric, accessories, and jewelry on the chair he’d been using for most of the day. He was a bit embarrassed to be standing there completely naked in front of his aunt, but assumed that this was something that every recruit had to endure. He fought mightily against the urge to cover his genitals with his hands, and stood there waiting for his next instruction. 

She grazed her eyes over him in a way that was definitely not appropriate, but refrained from making any comment. She waved her hand to lift a Disillusionment charm from a door that led to a bathing chamber. She directed him into the room with another wave of her hand, this time in invitation. “You must be thoroughly cleansed, Draco. I will help you with that.”

He gulped, he hoped silently, and preceded her into the small room. He stepped into the large copper tub, which was conspicuously empty, and waited for Bella to tell him what to do next.

She gathered several bottles and vials and placed them on the floor near the tub. “Sit,” she ordered, and watched while he folded his tall frame into the comparatively short vessel. She began by pouring the contents of two of the bottles into the tub and speaking an incantation in whispered tones, so quietly that he could not hear the words.

As the tub began to fill with more of the ingredients she’d gathered, Draco’s skin began to tingle lightly. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was unexpected, so therefore disconcerting. It seemed that she had no intention of explaining anything she was doing, thus he had no choice but to sit and experience it. Once all of the bottles and vials had been emptied into the copper vessel, it was filled to waist height with rose water.

Bella reached into the tub and lifted his right leg, moving her hands to his foot. She began to trace each contour, each muscle while repeating her incantation over and over again, still too softly for him to hear. She worked her way up his calf and shin, over his knee and the front and back of his thigh, putting enough pressure that he was very aware of her touch. When done with his right leg, she slowly placed it back into the tub and repeated the process with his left leg.

Draco was starting to get a little worried and embarrassed. He was sixteen, and young men of his age had a tendency to react in particular ways to the touch of a woman, even if that woman was a forbidden partner. He felt part of his anatomy twitch in reaction, and groaned in protest, closing his eyes.

“No, Draco, you must watch the process,” she scolded. “Get up on your hands and knees, inside the tub,” she ordered, causing him to meet her eyes with trepidation. “It’s necessary,” she said in response to his reticence.

When he’d done as she’d commanded, he felt her hands running intimately along his buttocks, dipping into the crevice to lightly stroke his anus and perineum, causing even more reaction in his groin. He cried out in protest when he felt her finger penetrate his sphincter ring.

“Shhh. It’s necessary,” was all she said.

She removed the intrusion and worked her hands up over his back, shoulders and neck, then instructed him to turn back over and resume his seated position. Dipping her hand back into the perfumed and potioned water, she slowly massaged his arms from his fingers back up to his shoulders, up the front of his neck and over his face. She then moved down along his chest and abdomen, reaching his waist and finally grasping his now erect penis firmly in her hand. She gave two firm strokes and reached for his scrotum, watching as his eyes rolled back, warring between pleasure and humiliation. Just when he had reached the point when he didn’t want her to stop what she was doing, she pulled away abruptly.

“Get out of the tub,” she instructed.

He gaped at her, too stunned to speak and too aroused to move without discomfort. “What the fuck?” he challenged her, breathing raggedly.

Smirking at him, she gave a bizarre explanation that he was shocked to hear. “I told you, you had to be ritually cleansed. It’s not my fault if you can’t keep control of your libido.”

He peered deeply in her eyes, disbelief evident in his gaze. He barely controlled his urge to grab her around the throat and squeeze, furious at her taunting and teasing. “Bitch,” he spat under his breath.

She laughed and turned to walk back into the main chamber. “What’s the matter, Draco? Did you want something from me?”

“You are a sick woman sometimes, Aunt Bella, and I don’t appreciate being the target of your depravity,” he seethed.

She just laughed again and instructed him to put on the brocade cloak. She assisted him in fastening it at his neck and draping it to cover his body completely. His anger had, thankfully, contributed to his arousal subsiding quickly.

“Are you ready?” she asked. With a wink, Bella handed him a chocolate truffle, this one laced with an exceptionally powerful potion to remove any inhibitions he might harbor. “To calm you,” she offered.

He nodded sharply and quickly ate the treat, and she opened the door leading to the open area where the final ceremony of the night would take place.

Nightfall had come, and a full moon brightened the gloom through a high, thin cloud cover. Draco was led by Bella into the center of a circle of perhaps seventy Death Eaters. The Dark Lord sat on a large wooden chair, so ornately carved that he’d probably deem it a throne. There was a stone slab just to his right, resembling a crude altar. As Draco walked silently through the circle, he noted that all murmuring had stopped, and the only sound was that of his bare feet making contact with the grassy earth. He couldn’t see his father, and everyone else was masked. He stopped ten feet in front of the Dark Lord, as had been indicated by the leader’s raised hand. His escort dropped the elbow she’d been clutching and moved away from him a few paces.

In his reedy, breathless voice, the Dark Lord spoke:

“Who appears before me now?”

“It is me, your petitioner, Draco Malfoy, my Lord.”

“And what is your petition this night, Draco Malfoy?”

“To join you as a Death Eater and to wear your mark tonight, my Lord.”

“Who presents this petitioner?”

“I do, my Lord. I offer my nephew, Draco Malfoy into your service.”

“And why do you do this, Bella?”

“It is his desire and mine that he serve you completely, my Lord.”

“And why should I accept this whelp into my service tonight?”

“He is eager and strong and willing, my Lord, to do your every bidding.”

“How will you prove this to me, Draco Malfoy?”

“In whatever way you choose, my Lord, I am yours to command,”

“Then let us begin your test of worthiness.”

Draco held his breath momentarily, waiting for the Dark Lord to issue an order. He was surprised when someone came up behind him and reached around to undo the clasp at his neck, causing the brocade cloak to fall to the ground at his feet. When he glanced back, he was not terribly surprised to find that it had been his father.

He was not thrilled to be standing naked before so many unknown people, particularly because they knew him and he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He fought, for the second time that night, not to cover his genitals in embarrassment. He resolved to remain stoic and unfazed, no matter what would come.

“You are a fine specimen, Draco Malfoy, young and strong,” the Dark Lord spoke. “How would you use your body in my service?”

Draco swallowed, a bit confused by the question. He decided that his best course was to follow the path he’d already walked. “In whatever way you choose, my Lord. I am yours to command,” he repeated his earlier refrain.

Voldemort nodded once, apparently a signal for Bella. She stepped out from behind his throne and produced Draco’s hawthorn wand, handing it to him with an amused smirk.

At the same time, another hooded and masked Death Eater was escorting a young woman into the circle. She was magically bound at the wrists and blinded by a simple hex. It appeared that she might have been Imperiused or under the influence of a potion, as she was relatively docile, considering the circumstances. Dressed in only a thin cotton sheath, it seemed that she wasn’t aware that she would not be likely to leave this place alive.

“This girl, Draco, is a Mudblood who was captured trying to use magic in the presence of her betters. What punishment do you propose?”

Draco’s head spun with indecision. He was baffled that he had been asked to make such a choice. He thought about the one clue that his Head of House had given him - he would be expected to successfully use at least one Unforgivable curse in order to earn the Dark Lord's mark. He raised his wand and pointed it at the helpless girl, causing her escort to step away from the line of fire. With as much venom and hatred as he could muster, he spoke the curse, “Crucio!” and held the wand trained on her as she began to writhe and twist with the pain.

At the same time, his perverse and twisted aunt, unnoticed for the attention diverted to Draco’s spell-casting, raised her own wand and pointed it at Draco, murmuring a spell that was typically reserved for the privacy of the bedroom. “Felliato,” she whispered. 

Draco felt an odd stirring in his groin for the second time tonight. This was more pronounced and insistent, though. He wondered in shock, am I really getting aroused by torturing this Mudblood? The evidence seemed clear; the longer and stronger he held the curse, the more aroused he became. It felt like his penis was being flicked by a dozen tongues, over and over again.

He glanced around to gauge the reactions of the Dark Lord and his followers. They were goading him on, urging him to take the curse to a higher level. They seemed to be focused on the girl and how she was screaming in pain, as much as they were on Draco’s personal predicament. He renewed his efforts to take the curse to another level, while his unseen aunt did the same with the spell she’d directed at him. As blood began to appear in a trickle at the girl’s mouth and she passed into oblivion, Draco roared, dropping to his own knees and grasping his penis tightly. It was erupting in an intense orgasm, thick white pulses of semen arcing into the air. It was something that could not be hidden from anyone present.

A hush fell over the gathering, then a loud cheer arose. Draco had no idea whether their ovation was for his success in casting the Cruciatus Curse or in mocking his erotic reaction. Regardless, he was mortified, and hung his head awaiting the Dark Lord’s pronouncement.

“It appears, my friends, that we have before us a young man who has found his calling,” Voldemort announced. “Rise, young Draco, and accept our congratulations.”

The crowd once again cheered their approval, his aunt applauding wildly, and Draco wondered if it was a deep perversion for him to have had an orgasm while torturing someone to the brink of death. Their reaction seemed to indicate that it was not abnormal; he was vaguely unsettled by the thought. Maybe they were all as sick as his crazy aunt. He pushed that thought away, remembering that this is what he’d wanted for so long, and it was about to come to fruition.

“Come closer, Draco Malfoy. You have been accepted to our fold with your display of skill and, uh, enthusiasm,” he chuckled. “As you have petitioned, you will take my mark tonight and become one of us for all of your natural life. Do you accept your charge?”

“I do, my Lord. I am ready to serve.”

“Kneel at my feet, young Draco, and receive my mark.” Voldemort reached for the young wizard’s left arm and pointed his wand, beginning to speak his incantation in a language that Draco did not understand. The spell would bind him, body and soul, to this man until death. The tip of the Dark Lord’s wand touched Draco’s skin and began to burn the skull and snake into his pale and tender flesh; the young man was certain he could smell it charring. The pain became so intense that he passed out just as he heard the Dark Lord shout, “Morsmordre!”

When Draco next awoke, he was still at the feet of the Dark Lord, but had been covered by his brocade cloak. “Welcome back, young man, Are you ready to receive your first assignment?”

“Yes, my Lord. What will you have me do?”

“You will go back to Hogwarts for one more year, during which you will have three missions to complete.”

Desperately hoping to keep his disappointment at having to return to school out of his voice, Draco accepted his fate. “Yes, my Lord. What are my missions?”

“You will kill Severus Snape. You will replace him as my eyes inside Hogwarts, and you will kill Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s Mudblood companion.”


	16. Revelations - Part 1

_Previously:_

_“I honestly don’t have a lot of strong memories of my last two years in school,” he admitted._

_“Why do you think that is, Draco?” she prompted._

_“I have no idea. I’ve never given it any thought, to be honest. It feels like I’m just moving through life day by day. How can that be, Granger? What have I been doing with my life?”_

_“Do you remember how we came to be together three days ago?” she asked, peering closely at his clouded gray eyes._

_“No, I have no idea, Granger. I swear on my magic,” he confessed._

_Hermione released his hand and sighed deeply, closing her eyes as terrifying memories assaulted her. “We have a lot to talk about, Malfoy.”_

 

“Do you remember the first time you tried to kill me?” she asked quietly, eyes downcast.

“What?” he exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that I tried to kill you another time?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. What happened two days ago was actually your third attempt on my life. Fortunately for me, you apparently aren’t a very competent assassin, at least where I’m concerned.”

“You’re something else, Granger, sitting here talking so calmly with someone who’s supposedly hell-bent on seeing you dead,” Draco marveled.

“Well, that’s the thing, Malfoy. I’ve known you for nearly ten years, and I’ve watched your ‘career’ as a Death Eater for half that time. Regardless of some of the horrible things you’ve done, in general, you really haven't been terribly successful at it, at least when it comes to me. I think there’s a reason for that, and whatever that is seems to be peeking through in the last couple of days.”12

“Wait. Just hold on one damn minute. You’re saying that I’ve been a Death Eater for five years? How is that possible? There’s no way that much time has passed since I took the Mark.” His disbelief was palpable. “Maybe you should start at the beginning, wherever that is.” He shook his head, trying to process what Granger had told him.

“Fair enough. You seem quite confused about the whole thing, so let’s take this slowly and see what we can figure out. Is that okay?” Hermione proposed.

“Yeah, where do you want to start?” he prompted.

“You know how earlier I was telling you about how well you used to do in school? And that things, uh, changed somewhere during fifth year?” He nodded at her reminder. “Well, at the end of that year was when Harry, Ron and I think you took the Dark Mark, right after we left school. There were rumors that you’d done it, but none of us had any proof, at least not for a long while.”

He watched her facial expressions, shifting between the far-away look one has when recalling a distant memory and the intensity of concern she had over dredging up things that might set him off. He thought it might be a good idea to take the tension level down a notch, and interrupted her briefly. “Is it okay with you if I drag a chair over to get a little more comfortable? I have a feeling this may take awhile.”

He noted her nod and tiny smile, the cheeky girl recognizing his attempt at mollification. His mission accomplished, he indicated that she should continue with a vaguely imperious wave of his hand. “Go on, please.”

“From what we heard from some of your fellow Slytherins, no one really saw hide nor hair of you that summer. You were tucked away at your family’s home, everyone thought. There was even a rumor floating around that you weren’t coming back for sixth year. Frankly, that would have made me pretty happy if it had been true, because things got worse for us when you came back at the beginning of the term.”

Draco interrupted her, offering a detail or two that he recalled. “You were right about me getting my Mark at the end of fifth year. In fact it was just a week after we returned home, and only a few days after my sixteenth birthday. All I can really remember about it was a large gathering, a test of my skills, and blinding pain when the Dark Lord burned his Mark into my skin. I’m pretty sure I passed out from it. I don’t remember very much at all of the three or four weeks after that. I would assume that I was at my parents’ house, but I couldn’t swear a wizard’s oath to that. I wonder if they used some kind of charm or potion on me right afterwards, because the pain of the branding was so horrible. If I was potioned, then it would make sense that I wouldn’t remember much.”

“I suppose that is possible. But I wonder why you don’t remember much about fifth year either. You said yesterday that you couldn’t recall anything at all from the previous couple of days, but that a lot of your past felt like Swiss cheese – full of holes. Any idea why that might be?”

“That’s what’s driving me so nuts. I recall thinking yesterday that, between my headache and my memory issues, it almost felt like I’d been under some kind of spell or potion influence. I even wondered if I might have been Obliviated, but that usually wipes your memory of an event completely clean, and I was getting little flashes of things, so I ruled that out. I just can’t see how that could happen, though. Who would do that to me, and why? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Think about it, Malfoy. Who would benefit from you being forgetful, or malleable, or violent?”

“Oh Merlin. There is someone that comes to mind – someone who has wanted to ‘guide’ me for as long as I can remember,” he answered, his eyes going unfocused and distant as he thought.

“And who is that?”

“My Aunt Bella. But the thing that makes absolutely no sense about that is that I almost never see her, so how could she possibly cast spells or give me potions – especially things that have had such an apparent long-term effect. I can count on both hands the number of times we’ve been together in the last few years.”

“That you can remember, Malfoy.”

“Hmmm. You have a point there.”

Hermione stopped to think for a moment, then posed another question. “What’s the most prevalent memory you have about fifth year, something that really stands out?”

“That’s the thing. Nothing stands out. Everything feels just, I don’t know, blurred together. I guess if I had to pick out anything, it would be the feeling of constantly being watched, and lots of conversations with Snape.”

“Do you remember what happened on Halloween that year?” she pressed.

“Not really. I have a vague recollection of being in the Astronomy Tower watching a charmed fireworks display, and talking to Snape the next morning, but I don’t remember why. Did something important happen that night?”

“You could say that. Someone projected a message from the Astronomy Tower about Mudbloods and traitors dying, and then cast the Dark Mark over Hogwarts. Everyone was certain it was you who had done it, because you were the only person with both the skill and the opportunity, but there was no absolute proof. Do you remember anything about that?”

Draco bent at the waist, rested his elbows on his knees and stared at his feet, trying to recall memories of that night so long ago. His head was feeling very foggy as he struggled to remember what Hermione had described. He tried to picture himself in the Astronomy Tower, to watch himself move or speak in his mind’s eye. There was a sliver of recognition – something about a pouch in his waistband – and then a bright light exploded behind his eyes, causing him to howl against the brilliant pain. He toppled off the chair and onto his knees, wailing in agony, his hands tightly clutching his head.

“Draco! Draco! Oh Merlin, Draco – please. Can you hear me?” Hermione tried to wrest his attention away from his pain. She was not close enough to reach him, but she stretched out her hand in his direction. “Draco, please. Take my hand Draco. I want to help you.”

He was breathing in great heaves, sucking in air as if there weren’t enough in the universe, and tears were coursing down his cheeks. The only time Hermione had witnessed such a violent pain reaction was when she’d been forced to watch someone under the Cruciatus curse. She wondered if he might have had an aneurism. She felt so helpless; unable to move more than a few inches and wandless was not a position of power. Her only hope would be to attempt a wandless magic spell to see if she could put him in a sleep-like state. Her own physical weakness made her doubt the likelihood of success. As she pondered the possibilities, it was clear that his condition was not abating. He’d now curled himself into a tight fetal position and was screaming at the top of his lungs.

She had no choice. If she didn’t try, he might have a stroke or something. For all the terrible things he’d done to her, he had tried to help her in the last two days; she felt honor-bound to return the favor. She shifted over so that she was as much on her side as she could be, facing him as he continued to writhe on the floor. She closed her eyes and tried to mentally shut out the sounds of his cries so that she could focus her energies on casting the wandless spell. She gathered her magical energies to the degree that she was able, pointed her hand at the agonized man, and spoke, “Tranquilo somneo.”

Two things happened in rapid succession. First, Draco’s writhing and wailing calmed to stillness and soft whimpers, and Hermione, taxed well beyond her capacity, fainted dead away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once again, it was Draco who came around first, immediately recognizing that the searing pain he’d experienced was now just an everyday nasty, pounding headache. He was grateful for the relative respite. He hauled himself up from his position on the floor and in doing so, recognized Hermione’s limp form. It didn’t look like regular sleep. “Oh, no. What happened now?” he breathed.

He dropped back to his knees and crawled over to the sofa where she lay so still and quiet. He felt for a pulse in her wrist, and was greatly relieved to find it fairly strong. Touching her face gently, he whispered her name, “Granger. Are you okay? Wake up, please. I have to make sure you’re okay.”

She moaned in feeble protest, but managed to open her eyes in response to his summons. “Draco. So weak,” she mumbled.

“Let me get you some water, Granger,” he offered, and slowly rose to recover one of the glasses he’d left behind in the bedroom. A visit to the kitchen produced the beverage he’d promised her and he supported her back with one arm while helping her to drink with his free hand. She gulped the cool liquid greedily, and seemed to gain a tiny bit of energy from it.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I think so. Did some wandless magic to try to help you, and it took a lot out of me,” Hermione explained.

“No shit. Don’t do that again, not for me,” he scolded.

“Why not, Malfoy? Isn’t your life worth as much as anyone else?” she challenged.

“I’m not convinced of that right now, Granger,” he replied, turning his back to her momentarily. “Hey, look, the fire’s dying down. I’d better add some wood to this right quick.”

She watched him pile several more logs into the fireplace and add more kindling in the form of crumpled phonebook pages for just a moment before speaking again. “You can’t get away with that, you know.”

“Get away with what?”

“Changing the subject. I think we both know that something important happened a little while ago, Draco. That headache means something. You said you had one earlier, right?” she pressed.

“Yeah, actually a couple of times. They’ve been coming and going since we got here. That one was the worst, though. No question about it. Still hurts, too,” he admitted.

“What were you doing when the other ones happened?”

“I was in the shower for one, another was when I was trying to help you put on the jogging pants, and there was also the one when I first woke up and found the both of us all bloody.”

She thought for a moment, attempting to make connections between the things he’d been doing and the headaches. Nothing seemed obvious. “No, there’s no pattern that I can see,” she muttered aloud, talking mostly to herself. She looked up at Draco again and asked a different question. “What were you doing while you were in the shower?”

“That’s a pretty personal question, Granger. You mean besides washing your blood off my body?” he goaded.

“That’s not what I implied, and you know it, Malfoy. I meant, what were you thinking?”

“Well, that’s not what you said, Granger, so be more specific next time.” He paused for a moment, and looked her square in the face. “Shit, Granger, I was trying to remember. And that’s what I was doing every other time my head felt like it was going to explode. The harder I try to remember things, the worse the headache is.”

“Now that’s important information, Malfoy. It sounds like there’s some other kind of memory charm in place that’s making it uncomfortable for you to recall things you’ve done. It may even be subtly forcing you to forget things.”

“'Uncomfortable' is a vast understatement, Granger. I really thought my brains were going to blow out the top of my head, it hurt so badly.”

“I’m wondering if it works in degrees, like if you only try to remember something small or insignificant, it gives you no pain or only a little, but if you try to recall something important or pivotal, it gives you one of those migraine types.”

“You may have something there, too, Granger. If I did pull that stunt on Halloween, that would have been one of the first major leaps into dark activity. That would certainly be classified as a pivotal event, and look what happened when I tried to think about it.”

“So again the question is who would do that to you?”

“Yeah, who would hate me that much, besides you, Potty and Weaselbee?”

“Well, Malfoy, you have to admit we have a few good reasons to, uh, dislike you intensely, but there are no good reasons to make you forget what you’ve done – at least not from our viewpoint.”

“Actually, I don’t know that you have good reason to hate me. You say that I’ve tried to kill you three times, but I don’t remember any of them. If it weren’t for the rather obvious physical evidence from our recent, uh, encounter, I’d have no reason to believe what you say.”

“About that, Malfoy. I know what happened, unfortunately, but how did you come to the conclusion that you were at fault if you couldn’t remember what you did?”

“Now you’re just trying to humiliate the both of us, Granger. Do you really need to know?”

“It would help me to understand, so yes, I think I do.”

Draco sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He spoke quickly and softly. “Besides there being only the two of us here, when I woke up I was covered in blood, but I had no significant injuries. I found you two minutes later, lying in pools of it, most coming from your vagina. My groin was completely covered in blood, and my penis was sore and tender, especially the head. Oh, and the bruises around your neck are an exact match with my handprint. What other conclusion could I have reached? Do I need to be any more specific than that?” he spat menacingly. “Bloody hell, Granger.” His face was flushed with both embarrassment and anger, and he turned his back to her, pacing the floor to release his frantic energy.

“No, Malfoy, that’s quite enough,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, but I had to understand how you came to the conclusion without the memory. It’s clear that your basic thought processes and reasoning capabilities have not been compromised, and that’s good.”

“Don’t be too sure about that, Granger.”

“Why not? Is there something else that happened?”

“Yeah, I just realized that there’s another time that I get the headaches, and it’s probably going to scare the shit out of you.”

“When? Please, just tell me and we can deal with it.”

“When the voices tell me to kill you, and I try to fight them back.”

“The what?!” she shrieked.

He sighed once more and tried to approach the topic calmly. “Every once in a while, usually when I’ve been tending to you, I’ll hear something that feels like a command or maybe a compulsion is a better description. It tells me to finish you off, to rape you again, or to kill you. Something like that. I’ve been fighting it off, because I really don’t want to do any of those things, but I get a massive headache every time I do.”

“Holy shit, Malfoy, are you schizophrenic?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Muggle term for a psychiatric illness, characterized by hearing voices, violent impulses, and probably two or three more of the behaviors you’ve displayed in the last few years,” she explained. “This just gets more fucked up by the minute,” she mumbled to herself.

“Wizards generally don’t get psychiatric diseases, Granger. Seriously, it’s way beyond rare. That doesn’t mean that combinations of spells and potions can’t mimic or reproduce the same symptoms. I’d lay Galleons on that, frankly.”

“So we come back to the same question yet again. Who would do that to you?”

Draco sat heavily in the chair near the fireplace and dropped his head into his hands, tugging lightly at the hair he’d gathered in both fists. “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

Both of them were quiet for several minutes, each absorbing what they’d learned in their last exchange. The silence was disturbed by an odd, low rumbling sound.

“What was that?” Draco asked.

“My stomach. Apparently I’m hungry,” Hermione complained, with only a tiny smidgen of embarrassment.

“Oh, yeah. It’s been at least a day and a half since either one of us has eaten, so no small wonder. We do have food, you know. I just don’t know how to get it cooked,” he revealed.

“We have food? What kind of food?” she asked eagerly.

“Mostly tinned things. Corn, baked beans, peas, tomatoes, and something called SPAM, whatever that is. It looked like some kind of meat on the package. Oh, and ten jars of pickles,” he sniggered.

“Well, that’s good. We won’t starve,” she concluded happily.

“Don’t be so sure about that. I don’t know how to cook, or even how to get the tins open. How do Muggles get their food prepared, anyhow?” Draco asked, his bafflement evident.

“I’ll bet you Galleons to Knuts that there’s stuff in the kitchen that we can use to make a meal. Carry me in there, and I’ll help you figure it out,” she ordered.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he smirked, but went to lift her immediately. As he bent over her, his own stomach growled long and loud. Both reacted with a laugh, some of the earlier tension relieved by the very human, natural, and mutual requirement for a nosh.

He deposited Hermione gently on one of the two mismatched wooden chairs that flanked either side of the oblong dining table. She eyed the small collection of utensils and tools that he’d salvaged from drawers and cabinets, and quickly found what they needed.

“Voila! A tin opener,” she announced in triumph.

“Okay, I suppose that’s a good thing. I assume you know how to use this, uh, contraption?” he queried, eyeing the bizarre metal tool with suspicion.

He took her rolling eyes as an affirmative response. “What’s next?”

“Well, we’ll need a pot of some type to cook things in,” she observed.

“The only pot I found was the one that I used to get you cleaned up, Granger. It’s had blood in it, so I’m guessing that it’s not a good idea to use it for cooking now,” he told her.

“Hmmm. Yeah, that wouldn’t be the best choice. But if it’s the only thing we have, we’ll have to make do. We’ll just sterilize it with boiling water.”

“Fabulous, Granger,” he drawled. “How do you propose we get boiling water?”

“Fill up the pot and put it on the stove.” At his look of confusion, she pointed at the large metal box with the weird coil rings on the top.

“That’s a stove?”

“Yes, Malfoy, and it’s the electric kind, too. No worries about other types of fuel!” she beamed. “Come to think of it, did you open the oven when you were searching around?”

“What’s an oven?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” she snickered. “It’s the lower part of the stove. Pull that metal handle down and look inside.”

He did as she instructed, and bent to peer into the dark cavity. He turned his head back to her with an honest grin and announced his findings. “There are two small pots, and these things.” He held up a frying pan and a baking dish.

“Excellent! Now we don’t have to worry about sterilizing the pot. These will do nicely for our needs. Malfoy, you are about to get your first lesson in basic kitchen procedures,” she chirped happily.

“Oh, joy,” he mumbled. Putting his hands on his hips, Draco looked at the collection of utensils and cooking vessels warily. “Alright, where do I start?”

“Unfortunately we don’t have any hot water to wash things with, but I’d start with at least rinsing off the two pots and the frying pan. I don’t think either of us would care to eat dust.”

Draco picked up the long-handled fry pan and looked to Hermione for confirmation that he’d selected the correct item. “Fry pan, yes?”

She chuckled at his appalling lack of knowledge on anything to do with a kitchen. It was apparent that he’d never been in the kitchen in his own home. Wizarding food preparation honestly wasn’t that different from Muggle methods, as she’d learned during numerous meals at the Weasley home. Deciding that it was better to preserve the illusion that his ignorance was purely because of the Muggle factor, she confirmed his selection. “Good guess, Malfoy.”

He moved the three items to the white porcelain sink and turned on the faucet, rinsing each pot in turn then shaking them over the basin to get them as dry as possible without towels. He’d remembered that he had used all the linens he’d found either in tending to Granger’s needs or as extra warmth for their bed. Our bed? Draco thought. That’s just… bizarre. He shook his head to clear the thought.

“Okay, Granger, they’re as clean as they’re going to get. What next?”

“We have to decide what we want to eat. Where are the tins?”

“I put them in this cabinet. I don’t know if they’re safe to eat – there’s no way to know how long they’ve been here.”

“Let me see them, and I can probably tell if they’re okay.” She looked over the collection that he’d brought to the countertop and pronounced them safe. “You know, Malfoy, these tins don’t look as though they’re that old, particularly considering the condition of the rest of the house. It’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

“I guess. I wouldn’t know an old tin from a new one if I fell on it, so I’ll defer to your judgment here, Granger.”

“Just for reference sake, as long as the tins don’t have any rust or dents and they aren’t bulging out, they will be fine. Just make sure to cook what’s in them until it bubbles for a few minutes, just like a potion.”

“What do you want to eat?” he offered.

“How about baked beans, SPAM and, um, peas?” she suggested.

“Fine by me,” he shrugged. “What is SPAM, anyway?” he ventured.

“It’s kind of like ham, but with some spices added in. ‘Spiced ham’ is shortened to SPAM.”

“Sounds revolting, but I guess it’s better than starvation,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, but sirloin roast is not on the menu tonight, Malfoy. We’ll have to make do. You’ll want to cut the SPAM into slices and put in the frying pan, on a medium heat so it won’t burn. The beans and peas can go in each of the pots, and medium heat should be fine for those too.”

“What’s next? How do I use the tin opener?”

“Do you want me to do it, or do you want to learn how?”

“How about you demonstrate one and I’ll try after that?”

“That’s the generally accepted methodology for learning, Malfoy.”

“Um, yeah,” he acknowledged sheepishly. “Swot,” he needled.

“Give me the peas. See how there’s a lip at the top of the tin? You hook the little metal wheel on the tin opener over that and squeeze the two handles together. Then you turn the crank until it goes all the way around. Be careful when you lift the lid off, because the edges are really sharp,” she warned. After completing her demonstration, she looked back up at Draco. “See? Not too hard.”

“No, not too hard at all. Let me try,” he requested. He took the opener from her and reached for the tin of beans. He struggled a little getting the mechanism to hook over the lip, but once that was done, he was off to the races. “Hey, this is not too stupid.” That was probably as much praise as she’d ever hear from him about anything Muggle.

He lifted the lid off and searched around for something to do with it. “How do you banish refuse without a wand?”

“We Muggles typically use a bin, not unlike many Wizarding homes, Draco,” she teased. “Unfortunately, I don’t see one around here. Maybe you could use an empty cardboard box or something like that,” she suggested.

“There were a couple down in the basement that I think we could use. I’ll go get one after we eat.” He piled the empty tins at the end of the counter for future disposal.

He poured the peas and the beans into their respective pots and set them on two of the stove’s four rings. He turned back to Hermione. “I’m assuming there is a way to activate the heat on this thing? How do I do that?”

“Of course. I would suggest moving one of the pots to a rear burner though, so that you can use the fry pan in the front. It will be easier when you have to flip the SPAM than to have to reach over a hot pot.”

He did as she advised, then looked at her, puzzled, “Flip the SPAM? What in Merlin’s name are you on about?”

She giggled. “When you cook the SPAM on one side, you’ll have to turn it over in the pan so that the other side cooks as well. May I assume you’ve never been in a kitchen before?”

“That assumption would be correct, Miss Granger. I’m a pureblood scion, why would I ever go in a kitchen? That’s house-elves’ work,” he sniffed imperiously.

“I’m not even going to go there with you, Malfoy. I’d prefer to stay alive for now, I think,” she stated. “And who uses words like ‘scion’ anyway?” she mumbled under her breath.

He just glared at her, but decided to let it go; no good could come from instigating an argument right now, especially one based on Granger’s perceived house-elf mistreatment crusade. “Whatever. How do I get this beast to heat up?”

Sighing with exasperation, Granger pointed to the front of the metal box. “See the round knobs at your finger tips? Each one corresponds to a burner on the stovetop. Just turn the dial half-way for medium heat.”

Draco turned the appropriate knobs and grunted with satisfaction as the round coils turned red. He turned to look at her expectantly, awaiting Granger’s next instruction.

“Now you just need to slice up the Spam. Probably four pieces should do it,” she suggested.

“That, I can handle.” He took one of the knives from the table and successfully portioned the chunk of mystery meat, then placed it into the pan she’d already told him to “pre-heat” on the burner. The little pieces of protein sizzled as they touched the hot surface.

“About two or three minutes on each side should be sufficient,” she instructed. “You might want to use this to turn the pieces over, and this to stir the peas and beans.” She selected a flat spatula and a large spoon from the implements on the table, and offered them to him.

He nodded and accepted the tools, turning to tend to the pots on the stove, one hand resting on the countertop and one ankle crossed over the other.

He appeared relaxed and almost domestic. Such an incongruous picture for such an aristocratic prat, Hermione thought. It brought a small, wry grin to her face. “You’re a natural. Malfoy,” she teased.

“I’m good at anything I put my mind to,” he sniffed. Draco turned back to the stovetop to watch the bubbling pots and sizzling SPAM. “I think everything’s about ready.” He cleared the unneeded tools and implements from the table and dropped them into one of the drawers, then grabbed the two small plates and served their modest meal.

“Dinner is served, mademoiselle,” he intoned as he placed the plate in front of Hermione. “Eat up.”

“Thank you,” she answered, and tucked in to the hot food. “Not the best meal I’ve ever had, Malfoy, but I’ll take what I can get right now.”

“Not what I’m accustomed to either, but not as bad as I thought it would be. You want a pickle with that?” he suggested. “I’m getting one for myself.” He rose from his seat at the table to unscrew the lid from one of the jars and pull a spear from the brine. He took a bite and proclaimed them “surprisingly tasty and crunchy.”

“No, thanks. Not much of a pickle lover,” she answered, screwing up her nose with distaste.

They ate quietly for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts about the events of the last couple of hours. Draco was first to break their silence, with a perplexed look on his face and a question that Hermione was unsure how to answer. “Why have you been, um, so pleasant to me after what I did to you, Granger?”

She set her fork down on the edge of her plate and swallowed, more in delay than in consuming her dinner. She looked at the remaining morsels in her plate rather than meet his searching gray eyes. “Do you want the truth, or do you want the answer that I think you want to hear?”

“I’m a firm believer in the truth these days, Granger. There’s been way too much obfuscation and treachery going on around me lately, and I think that getting to the truth is the only thing that will help me to understand what’s been going on for the last five years of my life. Don’t you think?” he challenged.

“Fair enough, Malfoy. The truth is, I’ve been nice to you so that I didn’t do something to set you off so that you’d try to kill me again. I’d rather live for a while, if it’s all the same to you. I’m not exactly afraid of you, because I do think you’re trying to, um, behave yourself, but I’m being cautious – regardless of what you’ve done to help heal me in the last day or two. I hope that doesn’t offend you, but it’s what I’m thinking and feeling right now.”

He nodded, looking at his own empty plate, and asked another question after mulling over her response. “What did you think I wanted to hear?”

“My guess is that you want to hear that I trust you, that I’ve put aside what’s happened to me. I wish that were true. I wish I could trust you, but without knowing exactly what the nature of your, uh, condition is, I just can’t take that chance.”

Draco flushed red, but didn’t react with anger. “I can appreciate that, I guess. My history doesn’t exactly recommend me, does it?”

She took that as the rhetorical question it seemed to be, and bent her head to focus on finishing the remains of her meal.

Draco rose from his seat and rinsed his plate and the three cooking vessels under the cold running water. He then filled the larger of the two pots with cold water. “You said something about boiling water to sterilize things, right?”

“Yes. Just put the pot on the stove and turn the burner to high. It will take about ten minutes to get to a good boil. You can just pour the water over the other dishes and they’ll be as clean as we’re able to get them.”

He silently turned and completed the task she’d described, setting the sterilized implements on the counter to dry. “I’d guess you’re getting tired. Would you like me to take you back to the bed or do you want to hang out on the sofa for a while?”

“I think the sofa for now. I’m tired, but we have a few more things to discuss before I’ll be ready to get any sleep.”

Draco moved to her side to lift her, but Hermione decided it might be time to try to stand on her own. She’d had some rest and some food; maybe some of her strength had returned. She lifted a hand to stop him. “Let me try to get up on my own.” She planted her hands on the table, thinking to use it as leverage. It was a good idea, at least in theory. The flaw in her plan, however, was that while some of her vigor had returned, it was not nearly enough for her to move on her own. As she pushed up, her legs buckled under her and she tumbled to the floor with a pained groan.

“Granger, you dumb bint. We don’t need you injuring yourself more than I’ve already done to you. Now it’s going to be harder to pick you up from the floor,” he grumbled, dropping to one knee to try to give himself enough leverage to lift her. He put one arm under her knees and the other across her back. “Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered. With a grunt, he pushed up with enough force to get them both upright. He shifted and hitched, settling her in his arms more firmly before turning to take her back to the sofa in the sitting room.

“Did you hurt anything when you fell?”

“Just my pride,” she mumbled.

He had the nerve to snicker. “Serves you right.” He turned and took note of the state of the fire and decided it would be a good idea to stoke it with more wood. “I’m going to get some of the logs from outside on the porch so we can keep warmer tonight. They’re a little larger than the ones in the wood cabinet, so they’ll burn longer while we’re sleeping.”

“Okay, good idea,” she agreed.

He stepped outside to gather several of the larger logs, and settled them on the floor near the hearth, ready to stack when the fire started to wane.

His mission accomplished, Draco turned back to face Hermione, hands on his hips and gaze slightly challenging. “You know, you said earlier that you knew something about how we got here, but you haven’t told me much yet. Ready to talk?”

“Well, Malfoy, if my memory is correct, and I’m pretty sure it is, we got here by Portkey, and I can’t be completely certain, but I think it was your mother who activated it.”

Draco was doing an amazing imitation of a goldfish out of water, sucking mightily for oxygen that would just not be found. “That’s not possible, Granger. My mother died two years ago.”


	17. Conditioning

_**Four Years and Three Months Ago** _

The first term of sixth year was coming to a close, and Draco Malfoy had only achieved one of the three missions given to him at the conclusion of his marking ceremony. Severus Snape and Hermione Granger still lived, but Draco had claimed more success in his role as a spy for the Dark Lord. He had used his keen skills of observation along with his natural curiosity to develop unwitting sources and gather unexpected intelligence about the activities of the Order of the Phoenix and the so-called Golden Trio. He had successfully uncovered – and laid waste to – “Dumbledore’s Army” just two weeks before they were scheduled to depart for another Yule break. There had been a handful of small, but bloody battles between members of the DA and Voldemort’s loyal supporters-in-residence that had severely injured no fewer than a dozen classmates, some to the point that their wounds would impair them for years to come. That there were no immediate deaths among the group was pure, dumb luck.

In leading the series of attacks against the students who were loyal to Dumbledore, Draco had nearly exposed himself as a Death Eater. He had made a blatant attempt on the life of Hermione Granger two days earlier as she’d patrolled Hogwarts’ halls alone, thwarted only by the unexpected and timely arrival of Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. He had not used magic in his attack, and had worn a hooded cloak that had concealed his identity, particularly as he’d grabbed her from behind. No traceable magic and no eyewitness identification meant that he’d escaped detection yet again. There was no way to tell that the hand prints around her neck belonged to the gloved Draco Malfoy.

This event had led to the new decree that all Prefects would patrol in pairs, with at least one male in each dyad. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom had gone one step further and had taken it upon themselves to ensure that the young witch was escorted everywhere she went. They had even arranged for Parvati Patil to accompany her whenever she visited the ladies’ bath.

The casualty toll was heavy and several Gryffindors and Ravenclaws had been among the most seriously damaged. Ron Weasley, who had been gravely injured in one of the attacks, had yet to regain consciousness; his sister Ginny occupied the bed beside his with her own incapacitating wounds. Colin Creevey had been blinded, perhaps permanently, while his brother Dennis had lost the use of his left arm. Luna Lovegood had been hit with an unknown spell that left her silent and staring. She had not spoken a word nor responded to any stimulus in eleven days.

The Slytherins had not escaped the skirmishes unscathed. Gregory Goyle had fallen down a moving flight of stairs after being hit by a Petrificus Totalus. His heavy tumble had shattered his right hip, an injury that was notoriously difficult to heal even with massive doses of Skele-Gro. Theo Nott had suffered a serious concussion when he’d hit the stone floor after being struck by a particularly strong Stunner.

The outbreak of violence within the school’s walls was now threatening its very existence. While outsiders had not gained access, it was clear that there were enough Voldemort supporters within the student population to wreak their own measured havoc. Discussions amongst school administrators and Ministry officials about closing the school had begun after the second of four attacks. When the injury count grew and the attacks became more vicious, the talks had taken on fevered urgency. Decisions would need to be made before the end of the Yule holidays. Even one more incident would almost certainly seal the venerable institution’s fate.

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“How many are left in the infirmary as of this afternoon, Minerva?” Headmaster Dumbledore inquired wearily.

“Four, Albus. The two Weasleys, Miss Lovegood, and Mister Goyle,” she replied. “Only Goyle is likely to leave within the next couple of days. He’s been segregated from the others as a precaution.”

“There are only six more days left in the term. Is it likely that the others will recover in time to be released to their parents’ care, or will we need to arrange for transfer to St. Mungo’s?”

“Poppy seems to think that Miss Weasley will be ready to be released by the beginning of next week. Her improvement has been slow, but steady. Mister Weasley and Miss Lovegood are not likely to recover that quickly, if at all. Poppy and I were discussing that it might be prudent to transfer them in the next day or so if there is no substantial change in their conditions.”

“You’re probably right, Minerva. Madam Pomfrey said as much to me when we spoke this morning. I was hoping that there had been some improvement since then,” Albus agreed sadly. “We have another meeting with the Board of Governors tomorrow, and they will be asking for our final recommendation about whether to keep the school open for the next term. I’m going to call a meeting of teachers and staff for this evening after dinner. Will you be so kind as to spread the word? We’ll meet in the Room of Requirement at a quarter till eight.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Did Draco answer the latest call, Bella?”

“Of course he did, husband. He’s been well-trained,” she said with a smirk.

“How has he been able to leave Hogwarts and get back in since security has been tightened?” Rodolphus wondered.

“The same underground passages we used to get to Hogsmeade when we were students. As you should remember, they are known only to Slytherin house members. The Unbreakable Vow surrounding their existence ensures that no one can reveal them to anyone not part of our little ‘family’ and that includes Professors,” she reminded him.

“Honestly, I’d forgotten about them. Why can’t we use them to get in to the castle for an attack, then?” he wondered.

“Because they can only be used by current students. I have no idea why, but once a Slytherin graduates or leaves Hogwarts permanently for any other reason, they can no longer use the passages without grave injury. It’s been tried dozens of times, and there are only a handful who have actually survived the attempt. Very frustrating,” she complained.

“No doubt,” he agreed. “How are you conditioning him to obey so quickly and thoroughly, Bella? I know he’s been under the combined potions’ influence for over a year, but it seems to me that there’s more going on there. He seems so, uh, content when we’re done.”

“You always were so observant, dear,” she cackled. “I’ve added a little extra… inducement of my own when Draco has accompanied us on raids. Something totally irresistible to a young man.”

“You didn’t,” he said with a gasp.

“I did. And he seems to like it, so what’s the problem?” she defended.

“That’s a bit twisted, even for you, Bella,” he accused.

“The Dark Lord has given me authority to act as I see fit in ensuring Draco’s training and loyalty. This is my choice. Deal with it,” she spat back.

“So does he come every time he tortures or kills someone?”

“Like a stallion. It won’t be long before I don’t have to use the Felliato spell on him any longer. He’ll be conditioned to respond with irresistible arousal and a powerful orgasm all by himself. He’ll be a machine for our army. A very satisfied machine.”

Rodolphus stared at his wife and shook his head, marveling at her ingenuity.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco returned to his room after the latest raid and stripped off his cloak and robes. They were stained with blood, but he’d let the house-elves deal with that. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he toed off his dragon hide boots and swung his legs up to stretch their full length. He was tired. It had been a particularly bloody raid and he’d tortured two Mudbloods and killed a third. Why they insisted upon gathering in groups to offer themselves up as sacrificial lambs, he’d never understand. Appreciate, yes, but understand – definitely not.

He’d never admit it, but these raids took a lot out of him. He always came back exhausted and vaguely unsettled. The frequent erections and orgasms were also a bit disconcerting. The stimulus, however, just felt a bit…off. He rarely got aroused these days by the sight of a beautiful, nubile young witch. It was when he was in the thick of the fight that he couldn’t control his basest physical response. Sometimes all it took was one stroke of his erection through the fabric of his trousers, and often no touch at all would get the job done.

Draco sat up briefly and stripped off the rest of his clothing, reaching for a truffle from his beside table as a midnight treat. Casting his customary privacy and silencing charms, he slipped in between the silver silk sheets and leaned back against the pillows, allowing his eyes to drift shut. His thoughts wandered to the Wizard’s magazine he’d spied over Goyle’s shoulder in the common room earlier that day. The gorgeous witch had peered out of the pages in a positively lewd pose, her legs spread wide and her wand transfigured into a life-like replica of a very large, very erect penis that teased her folds then plunged in over and over. He expected that this mental image would arouse him enough for a good wank, and he was disappointed to find that his penis remained flaccid and unmoved, even as he lightly stroked his shaft and sac. He allowed his thoughts to drift further over the activities and events of the last few days, including his attempt on Granger’s life. In his mind’s eye he saw his hands close around her creamy white throat and heard her gasp for breath. He recalled her struggling against him as he tightened his grip and his frustration as she continued her efforts to escape his hold.

He was stunned to realize that the erection that had eluded him moments earlier had decided to make a very obvious appearance. He was rapidly hardening and would soon be desperate for release. Draco spit into his hand and reached down to spread the moisture over the head of his swelling penis. He gripped the thick shaft tightly in his right hand, moving up and down slowly, deliberately. He added more pressure as he felt a new rush of arousal when his mind wandered once more to the curly-haired witch trying to wriggle from his hold. He kept up the stroking and pressure on his shaft as his left hand moved down to gently fondle his sac. Long fingers tickled and probed while a tightened fist pulled harder and longer. His imagination saw the witch collapse at his feet, breath gone from her body. One more forceful and fast tug on his shaft sent thick, heavy spurts of semen onto his chest, a deep groan accompanying the action. Now sated, his vision faded and sleep claimed him quickly.

When he awoke the next morning, Draco was a little surprised to find his abdomen coated with dried semen. He didn’t recall having an erotic dream. He shrugged, and pulled his dressing gown around his body as he strode to the lavatory for a shower.

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“Thank you all for joining me this evening. We have some very troubling and urgent issues to discuss, and I’m sorry to have to tell you that a decision will be reached tomorrow morning that will likely close Hogwarts for the foreseeable future,” Albus Dumbledore announced to the gathering of nearly thirty professors and staff members.

“Headmaster, may we assume that the Board of Governors has caught wind of the inter-house attacks?” Professor Sprout inquired.

“Yes, Pomona, that’s exactly what has happened, and as I’m sure you can imagine, they are quite unhappy. Regardless of the extra patrols, three undercover Aurors and the constant efforts of the staff, we have been unable to catch anyone in the act of committing these atrocities, and the perpetrators have been extraordinarily successful in hiding their identities while in the midst of battle. All we have are the suppositions based on who comes into the infirmary with injuries that need to be treated. Unfortunately, none of that leads to conclusive proof, without which we are unable to mete out discipline that might include suspension or expulsion. Casting Prior Incantato has yielded nothing in the way of offensive or unforgivable spells. We suspect that the battles have been waged with secondary wands, probably supplied by a Death Eater known to one or more of the students. The result of this is that the Board believes we are unable to stop the spread and escalation of violence and that it is only a matter of time before a life is taken. I’m sad to say that I find little fault in their reasoning, and have been unable to construct an argument or strategy that allows us to keep the school functioning in the current climate.”

Looking upon the dejected group, Severus Snape felt a strong pull of dread in his gut. If the school closed, he would likely have no choice but to rejoin the Dark Lord full time, a prospect he did not relish. He would have no excuse to remain behind at the school, and joining the Order full time would not afford him the flexibility and cover he needed to continue his role as a double agent. The Dark Lord had been hinting for weeks that he wanted the Potions Master to devote more time to his assignments and missions. He’d apparently been quite satisfied with the intelligence developed by young Draco Malfoy, and had grown more suspicious of Severus’ excuses and supposed missteps. Snape was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and he was getting squeezed out quickly. The throbbing behind his eyes worsened as he listened to the Headmaster’s conclusions.

“So unless there is a major breakthrough in the next couple of days, I think it is safe to say that we will not be returning to normal class schedules in January,” Dumbledore stated sadly.”As soon as I receive their decision, I will notify all of you via inter-school owl. Please do feel free to speak up if you have any additional ideas or questions.”

When the assemblage failed to offer any new strategies, Dumbledore dismissed them to complete their evening patrols. He requested that a handful of his most trusted friends and advisors remain behind for a moment.

“Severus, Minerva, Pomona, Filius, and Poppy, if you would give me just a few more moments of your time, please?” he asked.

Each of them nodded their assent and waited for the room to clear before their more private conversation began.

“As you well know, your roles as members of the senior staff mean that you have additional responsibilities beyond those of your colleagues. Heads of house will need to supervise the orderly departure of students and if the decision is made to close the school, you will need to assist in coordinating the move-out process. I’m telling you that you should be making plans for that now. I’m not at all optimistic about the outcome of tomorrow’s meeting, and as reluctant as I am to admit this, we have not been as effective as we needed to be in protecting our students and our school against Voldemort’s growing threat.

"Poppy, you will need to ensure that any patients that still remain in the infirmary are either released to their parents or transferred to St. Mungo’s by Wednesday of next week. None of them will be well enough to return for the remaining classes of this term, whatever the Board decides. I’m sure each of them will require additional time in recuperation. Begin making the appropriate contacts tomorrow. What questions or concerns may I answer for any of you?” the Headmaster offered.

Minerva sniffed quietly, refusing to allow the sob that threatened to be voiced aloud. Pomona was not the tower of strength that the elder witch was, and allowed fat tears to streak her face. Filius fidgeted nervously, unable to contain his anxiety. Severus sat stone-faced, mulling the dreadful decision that awaited him. Poppy, more accustomed than most of the others to dealing with bad news in her role as a medi-witch, calmly and silently nodded, accepting her assignment and the school’s likely fate.

Seeing that there were no questions that his senior team was willing to voice, Albus sighed heavily and spoke his dismissal to all but one. “Severus, please wait one more moment.”

“Have you decided what you will do?” he probed.

“I think that choice will be made for me, Albus, by the Board. I can’t see a way to maintain my double agent role if the school should close. While my loyalty stays with the Order, I can only continue to gather information and intelligence if I am in the Death Eater camp. I am relatively useless to you as a full-time Order operative,” Snape stated.

“Never useless, Severus, never. Your skill as a Potions Master alone makes you worth your weight in Galleons. Your in-depth knowledge of their methods doubles that. We would be lost without your wisdom and counsel. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Albus, but if I don’t at least offer to join the Dark Lord full-time if the school is closed, he will assume that my loyalties truly lie with you, and any advantage that we’ve gained with my work will be lost. I cannot risk that. I will do my duty and make my utmost effort to get new intelligence to you whenever I can.”

Dumbledore hung his head sadly, then met his friend’s eyes. “I understand, Severus, and I hope you know how much I recognize and appreciate the sacrifices you continue to make on our behalf. I can never express the depth of my respect for you and your commitment to the Order.”

“Thank you, Albus. You have done no less for me than be my most stalwart support when everyone else doubts me. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, know that my Wizard’s Oath of fidelity and fealty lies only with you and the Order. I must go now; there are preparations to be made.” With that, he rose from his seat, shook the elder wizard’s hand and left to tend to his responsibilities.

As the tall, thin man left the room, Albus whispered at his back, “No, Severus, the thanks are due to you.” He waited in silence for a moment more, then left the room, watching as the door disappeared before his eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Will the Board of Governors come to order,” the Director intoned, waiting for the side conversations to cease before wielding his gavel.

He rapped twice on the dais, indicating that the meeting was now in session. “We have convened to discuss the situation at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A petition has been presented by a quorum of members to consider ceasing educational activities due to an escalating series of attacks within the school and what appears to be an impending conflict between two factions of the Wizarding world. Who is among us to present arguments?”

“I am, Director.”

“Please state your name and interest in this petition.”

“I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My interest is in refuting the petition to allow education to continue.”

“I am, Director.”

“Please state your name and interest in this petition.”

“I am Dolores Umbridge, Senior Assistant to the Minister of Magic. We support the petition and seek to have it implemented effective at the conclusion of the current term.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Albus Dumbledore had rarely felt so disheartened. He’d been roundly defeated, and his leadership rebuked, in his attempt to halt the Ministry’s plan to close Hogwarts’ doors in just five short days. His only victory before the Board had been in delaying public notice of the decision until faculty, parents, and students could be notified, but the reprieve would be less than eighteen hours and there was much to be done. He’d returned to share the sad news with the staff and plan how to break the news to students before they learned about the decision in the next edition of the Daily Prophet. The hastily arranged faculty meeting began as students gathered in the Great Hall for their lunch break.

The Headmaster’s saddened expression as the professors congregated was sufficient notice of the news he had to share.

“My friends, I’m devastated to have to tell you that I have failed you. I was unsuccessful in my attempt to continue our mission of educating young witches and wizards. The Board has decided that we will cease operations once exams are finished next week.”

A murmur of disappointment and disbelief rippled through the room. This group had so much faith in their leader and found it nearly impossible to reconcile this news with their unspoken expectation that he would return with another success to his credit. Their luck had run out, it appeared.

“We must notify students and parents no later than tonight, and preparations for an extended shut-down must be completed by Saturday,” Dumbledore continued. His normally twinkling eyes were flat and listless as he began to dole out assignments. “Minerva, I’ll ask for your assistance in crafting a letter to be sent to parents before the end of the day. Argus, I’ll need you to coordinate a plan to manage the building segments. Classrooms, dormitories, offices, and the main kitchens will all need to be closed down for an extended period. Only staff quarters and the auxiliary services will operate after next Friday. Severus, Filius, Pomona, and Minerva, you know what you need to do for your Houses. I will make an announcement to the students at dinner tonight, timed to immediately follow their parents’ notification. We have a lot to do, my friends, but please do let me know if you have any questions or are in need of assistance.”

He looked out upon the collection of stunned and resigned faces, and felt every one of his one-hundred-sixty-two years. He was only a bit surprised when one hand rose from the back of the room. “Yes, Madame Hooch, what can I do for you?”

“Headmaster, I have two questions. First, what did the Board say about when and under what circumstances they will consider re-opening the school? Second, you know that many of us live here at the castle year-round. How will the school’s closing impact our residency?”

“Very good questions, indeed. Let me take your second question first. No one will be turned out of their home. Even with the teaching mission shut down, you all know that we continue to conduct our own research, experiments, and study. Hogwarts has been self-funded for generations, so although we operate our educational charter under authority from the Board, they cannot force us to abandon the property or to stop our other work. None of that will be impacted by the Board’s decision, and all of you are welcome to stay. If you have somewhere you prefer to go, please feel free to do that.”

This news was greeted with a collective sigh of relief. Most professors did not have other homes, and the idea of having to find new lodging at such short notice had been daunting. It seemed likely that the majority of the staff would stay.

“Your first question is more difficult to answer. Much will depend on what happens in the larger Wizarding community, I’m afraid. Death Eater attacks have increased in frequency over the last couple of months, and as events here have demonstrated, Voldemort’s supporters have made inroads into many of our institutions. The Ministry has not been as aggressive as most of us would prefer in quelling this activity, and there are dark supporters in positions of responsibility throughout the organization. There are forces constantly at work on the Light side, but one of the key elements in achieving success rests on the shoulders of a very young and inexperienced boy. That battle is not ready to be fought. It seems clear that the skirmishes of the last several months will develop into a full-blown war before too long. Should that come to be, it will be a long time before students walk these halls again.”

Silence reigned as the assembly absorbed this distressing assessment. There was little evidence to refute the Headmaster’s conclusions. They all knew the boy to whom the Headmaster alluded, and he carried a heavy burden that could not readily be shared. The Order of the Phoenix and moderate Ministry leaders would need to hold the line until Harry Potter was ready to claim his place in history.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The reaction across the Great Hall could not have been more diverse and startling. The Hufflepuffs looked shell-shocked. Ravenclaws were uncharacteristically confused. Gryffindors felt devastation and betrayal. Slytherins smirked and quietly celebrated.

The news came as the Dark Mark on Draco Malfoy’s arm began to twitch and burn. He was being called, likely in response to the victory that the Dark Lord had won in seeing Dumbledore rebuked and hamstrung by the Ministry’s decision. There would be both celebrating and planning tonight, he guessed. Draco skulked out of the Great Hall amidst the uproar created when his fellow students learned that their schooling would end in five short days, with no plan for resumption in sight. He slipped out of the school unnoticed, and arrived at his family home mere moments later, thanks to the unregistered Portkey his Aunt Bella had provided for his use.

“Father! I’m here,” he called out, stalking through the halls in search of the gathering to which he’d been summoned. Descending the stone steps into the dungeon, he heard the low murmur of conversation at the far end of the structure. That meant that it was a select group, as they’d convened in the smallest of the seven chambers that made up the lowest level of Malfoy Manor.

“Your father is not with us tonight, Draco. He’s been sent on a mission of his own,” Bellatrix informed him. “It’s you that we need this evening, nephew.”

He nodded in response, slightly uneasy that his father would not be part of this discussion. Only the Dark Lord, his aunt, uncle, and Vincent Crabbe’s father were present. “What do you need from me then, Aunt?”

“You are to carry a message from the Dark Lord, Draco. For our dear Severus. You will tell him that he is commanded to join us, and his immediate mission is to eliminate Albus Dumbledore. Should he fail in that mission, you are ordered to complete your task of killing the traitorous potions master before Hogwarts closes next Friday. Your own failure in this will not be tolerated, Draco. You’ve had all term, and while we are pleased with your work in other areas, this part of your assignment must be executed. On the off chance that Severus does follow through, you are to await further orders.”

“I understand. What about my task to kill the Mudblood? My last attempt was unsuccessful because a teacher interrupted my attack and I was very lucky to get away without being caught. Her friends have been acting as bodyguards since then, and I’ve had no additional opportunities.”

“That duty still stands, Draco. I feel confident that new opportunities will present themselves on that front. Should the occasion arise before you depart Hogwarts, however, please feel free to seize it.”

“Yes, Aunt Bella. I’ll do my best.”

“Of course you will, Draco,” she cooed. “Now, go back to school before you are missed. We will be in contact shortly.”

He took this as the dismissal it was, and bowed low to the Dark Lord, who had simply observed the conversation between the two. Draco raced up the stairs into the Manor, hoping to avoid contact with his mother along the way. His luck held as he exited through the main foyer and activated the Portkey from the grand marble steps of the portico without further disturbance.

Rodolphus nodded his head after the departing boy and asked his wife, “Will he follow through?”

“Without a doubt, dearest. He’s coming along nicely, and now that he’ll be nearer to us more frequently, we’ll be able to direct his progress even more. Think of it as fine tuning,” she chuckled.

The Dark Lord smiled. “Bella, I am in need of your services. Rodolphus and Crabbe, you may leave us now.”

Before the heavy wooden door was fully closed, the departing men could hear the rustle of Bella’s discarded robes hitting the cold stone floor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the time Draco returned to the Slytherin dormitories, the majority of his housemates had returned from the Great Hall. A festive mood had set in as those loyal to the Dark Lord recognized his subtle but important victory. The closing of the school meant that Dumbledore had failed and that the students who were in his camp would not easily receive the more advanced training that they would need to effectively wage a magical war.

“Where have you been, Draco?” Pansy demanded, arms akimbo. “Professor Snape was looking for you and he was very unhappy to find you among the missing.”

“He can just sod off. I had something to do, and I’ll tell him about it when I’m good and ready,” he retorted, annoyed that she’d had the temerity to question him. He moved around her brusquely to gain access to his dormitory.

“Hey, don’t AK the messenger. I’m just letting you know that he was sweeping around like the great bat that he is, ranting about you not being here,” she gave back, affronted at his brush-off.

“Whatever. I’ll get to him shortly. Just bug off, Pansy. I don’t have time for you right now.”

She gasped. “You were with Him, weren’t you?”

Draco grabbed her arm, wrapping his fingers tightly around her slight bicep. “Keep your mouth shut, Pans,” he seethed under his breath, “before someone does it for you.” He glanced around the room, trying to gauge whether anyone had heard her outburst. It seemed that they were all absorbed in their own conversations and revelry, so he released his grip before anyone did take notice of their squabble.

“Don’t you threaten me, Draco Malfoy. I may not have the Mark yet, but my family supports the Dark Lord just as much as yours does. I’m not going to spill the beans to anyone, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Fine. Just leave it. I have things to do.” With that, Draco released the wards on his door and flopped back onto his bed, forearms crossed over his eyes. This would be a stressful few days, after all. He had to ensure that at least one man was dead by the end of the following week, and two more victims were still on his list. He rolled to his side to reach for the lovely silver box that sat upon his bedside table. He would comfort his anxiety with a rich, dark, chocolate truffle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Examinations would be held during the first three days of the week, an accelerated schedule that was necessary because of the unusual preparations required for the school’s extended shuttering. Since there was no telling when students might resume their education, these final grades would serve as the last evaluation of their magical knowledge and ability in the eyes of the wizarding world. If war did come, school marks wouldn’t mean too much for those fighting in the trenches, but they would serve as guideposts for possible job placement or entrance into other learning institutions for those who chose to flee Great Britain. Estimates were that nearly thirty percent of the population, particularly those of Muggle descent, would abandon the country to protect their families.

Draco hadn’t put much effort into studying; his future was already determined and his Hogwarts grades would be of no consequence for the foreseeable future. On the same evening that he’d been given his latest task, he had waited until most of his housemates were passed out from too much celebrating or succumbed to slumber before seeking out his House Head. It had been a brief, tense, and decidedly odd meeting.

“Your mission,” he’d told the Potions Master without preamble, “is to off the old man by next Friday, then report to the Dark Lord. If you fail, you’re mine.” He’d left swiftly, not wishing to have any further discussion with the man he’d been charged to kill.

Snape could do little but gape and nod, so stunned was he by both the message and its abrupt delivery. It appeared that his fate was sealed. The long-time double agent made no delay in communicating his difficult position to his friend and leader.

“You know that I will not do this, Albus. Especially now that the school must close, you are more needed than ever to guide the resistance efforts. Potter cannot hope to prevail without your teaching and counsel. I will do everything I can between now and the end of the week to transfer my pertinent memories to your pensieve and to leave you whatever notes and evidence I’ve collected. Draco will not hesitate to kill me when he learns that you still live, so I want to be certain you have access to all that I’ve accumulated while ostensibly serving the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore slowly shook his head from side to side, meeting the younger man’s dark eyes with kindness and empathy. “No, Severus, that is not an acceptable outcome. You will fulfill your mission and join the Dark Lord. Minerva will very capably fill my role along with Alistair Moody and Remus Lupin, and you will need to be inside Voldemort’s camp to give them whatever intelligence you can. Your presence will provide the critical difference in securing a victory for the Light. Of this I am most certain. I will use the next several days to ensure that everything that young Harry must know will be available to him when he needs it. Run along, now. You’ve got a lot to do, as do I.” He gave the man a broad smile and waved him away, turning to put quill to parchment.

Once again, Severus was left agape and shocked. He left the room, as requested by his mentor, but he was resolved to find another solution to this dilemma. He would gladly die to preserve the Headmaster’s critical leadership role, but he had to admit that he did not relish the idea of becoming Draco Malfoy’s next victim.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was Friday morning, barely, when Draco crept out of his dormitory into the stillness of the vacant Slytherin common room. A quick glance at the large Grandfather clock propped in the far corner confirmed the time at twenty-five minutes past one. He cast a strong Disillusionment spell on himself, shivering slightly as the cold tendrils of the charm swept rapidly over his body. Wrapping his cloak around his thin frame, he remembered to lift the hood to cover his bright blond hair in a secondary effort to conceal his identity. He pocketed his wand, opened the portrait that guarded the dungeon’s entrance, and peered out into the darkness in search of any impediments to his progress. The dim torchlight revealed nothing, and the silence reinforced his conviction that he was, indeed, alone. 

 

Just after dinner on Thursday, he’d overheard a conversation between Professors Flitwick and Sprout that indicated that the entire staff would be working overnight to complete final arrangements for the next day’s departure and building shut-down. He thought it might present an opportunity for him to confront Snape about his failure to eliminate the bane that was Albus Dumbledore. Guessing that the Potions lab was a reasonable probability for locating the great bat, Draco stealthily edged along the damp stone walls that connected the student dormitories to the rest of the dungeon’s segments. He was only a little surprised to find the door to the lab ajar and a dim light filtering out into the corridor. He stepped into the room to find it empty but the door to the storeroom also open. Draco could hear the soft clink of glass vials tapping against other surfaces. Snape must be packing away ingredients that would not be used by students for months, maybe years, to come. He’d better put good stasis charms on them, Draco smirked to himself.

The young man moved to the storeroom’s entrance and announced himself with the clearing of his throat. Snape had been so intent on his task that he’d not noticed that he’d been observed for nearly a full minute by the slim blond. To his credit, he maintained his serene composure at the unexpected intrusion. Whatever was to come, Severus Snape was no coward. He’d accept his fate with dignity.

“Mister Malfoy. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company so late in the night?” he drawled quietly.

“You know why I’m here. Let’s not play games. Have you fulfilled your responsibility?”

“I have innumerable responsibilities. To whom or what, pray tell?” Snape was realistic, but not eager to meet his maker. If he could delay or divert the boy, there might yet be a chance to emerge unscathed.

“You know very well what I’m talking about. Does Dumbledore still live?”

“Of course he does. Do you think I’d be calmly cataloguing ingredients if the Headmaster lay dead in the castle? You’re not as smart as I thought, Draco.”

Draco refused to take the bait and decided to challenge that man who had been his teacher for five and a half years. “And do you plan to remedy that anytime soon?”

“My timing is my own. I will do what I must when the time comes,” he replied, turning back to the rack of vials he’d been packing.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Professor,” Draco sneered, sarcasm evident in his tone. “You will fulfill the Dark Lord’s mission by dawn, or suffer the consequences.”

Severus Snape actually snorted at that. “And you think that you will be able to carry out that retribution upon me, Draco? You are deluded if you think that you can best me, boy. If you think about it, I’ve taught you everything you know, but I’ve not taught you nearly everything that I know. I’d prefer not to bring harm to a student, but if you attack me, I will not hesitate to destroy you where you stand.” His dark eyes glittered with anger and challenge.

“You, Professor, are not my only teacher, nor is Hogwarts my only school. It would do you well to remember that. You have until dawn.”

With that, the young wizard glared at his teacher then turned on his heel to make his way back to his dormitory for a few hours rest.

Severus slumped against the workbench, giving in to the shiver of anxiety that had swept over him during his confrontation with Draco. While he was undoubtedly a much more skilled and experienced wizard, the young man only needed to be lucky once, and to catch him unawares, as he’d just proved he could do. Draco would not engage him in a duel; it would be a hit. There was much to complete before dawn, and worrying over their next meeting would not help his preparations nor change the parameters of that date with destiny. He gathered his wits and refocused on the job at hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Five more hours, Draco guessed. That would be all the time that one of the two men had left to live. Which one died was ultimately up to Severus Snape. He could choose to do his duty to the Dark Lord or his own life would be forfeit. It was as simple as that. Draco really didn’t care either way; both men were obviously impeding the Dark Lord’s mission, and both would have to go at one time or another. He’d become increasingly convinced that Snape was the bigger problem, and while he’d surely not miss Dumbledore’s interference, Snape was a traitor. At least there was some honor in sincere convictions, however wrong-headed they were. He could almost respect that in the old man.

He stretched out fully on his bed, only removing his boots and cloak. He’d have to go back out shortly anyway, so he’d resolved to take a brief snooze before his mission would need to be fulfilled. Maybe have a little midnight snack of some of those tantalizing truffles. Three treats and two fluffed pillows later, Draco dropped off to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Headmaster, such a surprise to see you here,” Severus teased. Despite the weight of the moment, the Potions Master was in relatively good spirits. He’d come to terms with what he’d decided.

“I’m ready, Severus. Everything is prepared,” Dumbledore stated.

“I’ve made other arrangements, Albus. My mind is made up. I will not kill you, regardless of the consequences of my failure to act,” Snape resolved.

Sighing sadly, Albus looked at the younger man with fondness. “This is most unwelcome news, my friend. You are too valuable to the end game to surrender so easily to the fate that Voldemort has planned for you.”

“Who says I’m going to surrender?” Snape retorted. “I have other ideas. Granted, they will be more difficult to execute, but I am not without hope, Albus.”

“Very well, tell me what you’ve planned,” he requested.

“It’s better that you don’t know the details. Just remember that everything you will need from me for the foreseeable future is to be found in the Potions lab. The encryptions can be decoded using the Order’s fifth protocol. I will be leaving the castle within the hour, and I’d guess that you will find young Mister Malfoy extremely unhappy about that. He visited me a couple of hours ago with his version of a threat.” Snape actually chuckled at the thought. “He is so full of bravado, that one.”

“That’s true, but not without reason, as I’ve come to understand recently. It seems that the young man has bloodied his hands more than once. You will need to be extremely careful to avoid him, as I’m sure he’ll be most anxious for you to be his next target.”

“No doubt. But I haven’t survived nearly twenty years as a double agent without learning a thing or two about subterfuge and self-preservation. I’ll be fine, for a while at least. I will contact you when I can through Order channels, but I’d not count on it being soon. Now, it’s time to go. I wish you all the best, Albus.”

“Godspeed to you, Severus. Merlin’s blessings be upon you.”

The two men clasped hands, and the younger wizard took up the bag he’d prepared. Without another word, he disappeared into the darkness of the dungeon with only the faintest sound of footsteps echoing after him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One hour later, Draco Malfoy was awakened not by the rising sun, but by the sharp pain in his arm that accompanied the Dark Lord’s summons. With a grunt, he rose and donned his boots and cloak, ready to answer his master’s call. Instead, a large dark owl scratched at the window beside his bed, and he recognized the bird as one often used by his Aunt Bella. Unlatching the window, he allowed the creature entry and untied the message affixed to its leg. He read each word with growing horror: “We’ve had word that the traitor has fled. Both you and he have failed in your tasks. Return for further instructions. B.L.”

“Nooo,” he breathed. “How can this be? And how could they know even before I do?” he wondered. Whatever the source of information, the only conclusion he could reach was that there was someone else watching and reporting back to the Dark Lord, either in the castle or somewhere along Severus Snape’s travel route. Regardless, his own future had just become a lot more complicated.


	18. Revelations - Part 2

_Previously…._

_His mission accomplished, Draco turned back to face Hermione, hands on his hips and gaze slightly challenging. “You know, you said earlier that you knew something about how we got here, but you haven’t told me much yet. Ready to talk?”_

_“Well, Malfoy, if my memory is correct, and I’m pretty sure it is, we got here by Portkey, and I can’t be completely certain, but I think it was your mother who activated it.”_

_Draco was doing an amazing imitation of a goldfish out of water, sucking mightily for oxygen that would just not be found. “That’s not possible Granger. My mother died two years ago.”_

 

They stared at each other for a moment, both confident in their assertions, both stunned at the possibility that the other professed. They couldn’t both be right; surely the other was mistaken. But who, which was the reality? Who, if anyone, had been interred in the Malfoy crypt? Who had activated the magical device that had sent them swirling away from that cold, stone room where blood had been spilled? And more importantly, why?

Draco had attended a memorial service and watched his father mourn the loss of his beloved. The Manor had been draped in black bunting for weeks after. True, he’d not seen his mother’s body, but his father’s grief had been so real, so palpable. He’d been away from home for many weeks, as far as he could recall. Now, however, he knew that he could not trust his memory or his perception of time. In any case, he’d not been in Wiltshire when he’d received the news; he thought he’d been on another series of raids to root out Mudbloods from the hiding places that had been established by sympathizers. He'd received a message: he was to come home; his mother was gone.

He recalled being too stunned to ask questions about how it had happened. He recalled thinking that it didn’t really matter; she was gone and nothing would change that. If she’d been killed by one of Dumbledore’s minions, well, they’d get theirs in the long run anyway. He didn’t want to know. It would be too distracting to try to track down one culprit; he’d just continue to target the whole lot. If she’d died from some ailment or malady, there was nothing to be done about it. Regardless of the means of her passing, she was gone, and Draco didn’t want to know anything more.

But now, Granger seemed so certain that she’d seen Narcissa Malfoy just two days earlier. How was that possible? It just couldn’t be so. All of this flitted through Draco’s consciousness in a split second. He needed more information. Just to be sure.

“What makes you think that you saw my mother? Are you sure you would know her on sight?” Draco pressed.

“Quite certain. I’ve met your mother half a dozen times, at least. She is a very distinctive person. I could never forget her,” Hermione asserted.

“What makes her so memorable to you? And why would you have met her so many times?” Draco was confused now. Why would this light side soldier have had contact with the wife of one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted supporters? This made no sense at all.

“You may find this hard to believe, but I met her at your aunt’s house.”

“That’s impossible. If you’d been to Bella’s house, you’d have never left alive,” Draco jeered.

“I didn’t say it was Bella’s house. You have another aunt, you know,” she prodded him.

“I do?” Draco looked confused and bewildered.

“You do. She’s your mother’s middle sister. Her name is Andromeda, and she married a Muggle-born wizard a little more than twenty-five years ago. She and your mother were estranged for many years, but that has obviously changed in the last few years.”

“I had no idea. Honestly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much as her name before this minute.”

“Well, that’s not entirely surprising. The Black family disowned her, and she was magically removed from all family records, according to your mother. The only way you’d have heard about her was if one of her blood relatives, namely your mother or your other aunt, said something about her. It’s clear that they didn’t. But their reasons for keeping silent, particularly over the last couple of years, are probably polar opposites.”

“It sounds like you know a lot more about my family than I do, at least on the Black side. How is that?” Draco prompted.

“Your Aunt Andromeda, or Andy, is the mother of Nymphadora Tonks, an Auror whom I know well, and who is married to Remus Lupin, our former DADA professor. And as I said, I’ve met your mother at least a half a dozen times. It’s been awhile, but we’ve spoken once or twice. The last time I saw her, before this week, was about seven months ago,” Hermione informed him.

Draco dropped heavily into the easy chair that he’d moved near the fireplace, uncertain that his legs would continue to support him. “I don’t understand. Why would she want us to think she was dead? Does my father know? Where is she now?” Draco’s voice sounded small and confused, his jaw slack with the shock he’d absorbed.

“I wish I could answer your questions, Draco, but I just don’t know. When I saw her, she did ask me to keep confidence about her location, but she didn’t say anything at all about your father, or about people thinking her to be dead. I just assumed that she didn’t want to endanger her relationship with her sister. She asked me one time if I had seen you in the last couple of years, and I told her truthfully that we’d not met face to face since the second time you tried to kill me, more than three years ago – not long after we left Hogwarts in the middle of sixth year. She didn’t seem terribly surprised.”

“About what – that we hadn’t seen each other or that I’d tried to kill you twice?”

“Well, both, I guess. We didn’t have an extended discussion about it. I was just passing through with Tonks on our way to a meeting, and your mother was having tea with Andy.”

“Could it be that your father wanted you to believe she was dead?” Hermione wondered.

“I can’t imagine why. What would he have to gain by me thinking my mother was dead? That doesn’t make any sense.” Draco shook his head, displaying his internal refusal to believe something so incredible, so impossible.

“The only other explanation I can think of is that she wanted _him_ to believe she had died. Can you think of any reason she might want that?”

“Not to my knowledge. I know that she was not as avid a supporter of the Dark Lord as my father and …” he hesitated, unable or unwilling to voice aloud that he was one of them.

“Draco, I know you’re a Death Eater, so don’t be disingenuous,” she interjected.

“But that’s the thing, Granger, I know what I am, but I don’t know why,” his voice trailed off into a mere whisper.

“Maybe your mother had more influence than you’ve been willing or able to admit, Draco.”

“But there’s so much blood on my hands. Why have I killed so many people, Granger? Why did I try to kill you? When I think about it, the truth is that I really don’t know you well enough to hate you, so why should I care to see you dead? Just because your blood is different from mine? It makes no sense to me.” Draco seemed to be begging for an answer, his brow wrinkled in confusion. A dull ache began to build behind his eyes, and he feared that another blinding headache might be his price for thinking, for questioning what he’d been doing for so many years.

“I can’t answer any of those questions either, Draco. But isn’t that the crux of the issue with this war we’re fighting? Isn’t that why Voldemort is trying to exterminate me and my kind – our different blood?”

“I suppose you’re right. It just feels like my thoughts aren’t my own. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but my brain feels… foreign.” He looked into her eyes for the first time in several minutes, and saw his own perplexity reflected there. Something was definitely amiss somewhere, but the source and result weren’t making connections.

“The more I think about it, the more I think you’ve been controlled by someone or something for a very long time, Draco. There’s been an influence over you, and for some reason, you’re breaking away from it in the last couple of days. Something had to trigger a change, on both ends of the equation. We need to try to figure out where and when it began, and what has changed in the last two days to minimize those effects.”

“You’re probably right, based on what we discussed earlier with my memory issues. But I want to know more about why you think it was my mother that sent us here. That might even help us get to the other concern. Exactly what do you remember about that?”

Hermione took a deep breath to steady herself. This would not be easy to say. She stared at her folded hands and told him what he needed to hear. “You and seven other Death Eaters raided a meeting of Order operatives and killed four of our group outright. There was a short battle, and your team prevailed. The remaining group of six was captured, stripped of our wands, and transported to a dungeon that had several cells with stone walls and iron bars. I can’t be sure, but I suspect we were at Malfoy Manor. We were held there for about two days and interrogated about Order activities. We were served only moldy bread and water by a couple of women who hid their identities with hooded cloaks drawn over their faces. You finally got around to questioning me and I refused to answer you. I’ve learned pretty well over the years to resist Imperius, and you apparently didn’t have Veritaserum. You got really angry that I was refusing to cooperate, so you decided to ‘teach me a lesson’ to quote you directly. You used Evanesco to vanish my clothes and tore your own clothing off. You beat me and raped me. You had, uh, finished and rolled off of me when I saw your mother enter the dungeon. That’s one of the reasons I thought we might be at the Manor, and that maybe she was one of the women who had given us our meager meals. I was drifting in and out of consciousness by then, but I remember hearing her gasp. She was holding a black cloak. The last thing I remember is that she tossed the cloak over you, and part of it must have been touching me as well. I don’t know if that was her intention or accidental. I heard her say “Portus,” and that’s the last thing I remember before waking up here.”

Draco listened to Hermione’s account as dispassionately as he could. It was not easy to hear that he’d behaved little better than a beast, and that his mother had somehow been witness to it. The prospect that his mother had seen him in the act of literally trying to fuck this woman to death made him want to crawl into the woods and die. He thought he might vomit. In fact, he was sure of it. He dashed from his chair to the small bathroom and made it to the toilet just in time. He retched repeatedly until there was nothing left.

Hermione didn’t move from her spot on the sofa, wouldn’t have even if she’d been able. She could hear the sickening sounds that emanated from the bathroom; she knew how raw his throat must feel. But, she suspected, not nearly as raw as his heart.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was several minutes before Hermione heard the sound of running water. From the way it echoed, she guessed that he’d turned on the shower. Merlin, but that had to be cold, she thought. The pragmatic side of her wondered if they might try again to get the furnace going. There might be a simple explanation for why it didn’t start up earlier. She’d have to think about that. Only a few moments later, the water stopped flowing and she heard Draco moving around in the bedroom. When he emerged about ten minutes later, his hair was still damp and he’d draped a towel around his shoulders.

He sat on the easy chair once again, eyes trained on the space between his feet, which were planted firmly on the worn wooden floor. His jaw worked back and forth, as though he was contemplating whether to allow a few words to escape. Hermione broke the silence before he could decide.

“Are you okay?” The compassion in her question made him hate himself that much more.

With a wry grin, he glanced at her for a fraction of a second. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for asking.”

She nodded in acknowledgement, then both fell silent again for long minutes.

When she spoke again, her voice was soft and soothing. She didn’t want him to think she was patronizing him, but somehow, she thought he needed to hear what she was feeling. “I can only imagine what you’re thinking. I won’t pretend to understand. But I’ll guess that in the long run, it’s a good thing. It shows that there’s something in you that feels regret or at least confusion about what you’ve being doing with your life. That’s a man your mother could be proud of.”

Draco shook his head slowly, shame still evident in the pained expression on his face. He hid his eyes behind open palms and scrubbed away tears that he’d been surprised to shed. “Yeah, right,” he scoffed, barely above a whisper. He tossed the towel that had rested around his neck onto the arm of the chair, his movements sharp with disgust. “I’m a despicable excuse for a human being, and she must abhor what I’ve become. I almost hope she is dead so that she doesn’t have to see what a failure I am as a person. I hate me quite a lot right now.”

He rose quickly and went to the cottage’s front door, reaching for the cloak that he’d tossed across the end of the sofa along his route. “I need to be alone for a few minutes. I’ll be back,” he promised, his back turned to the woman he’d nearly killed.

While she sat quietly on the sofa, contemplating their discussion, Draco stomped into the snow that blanketed the ground. It had developed an icy crust, and it crunched as he made his path away from the small dwelling. It was still very cold, and the gusty wind reddened his cheeks and nose almost instantly. Without gloves, his hands would chap next, and he thrust them angrily into the pockets of his cloak. The property was surrounded by heavy forestation, but he did see a marked path leading away from the building. It was overgrown with brush, but discernible. He didn’t relish the idea of getting lost in the forest, and he did want to get back to Granger – she would need his help. _That may be the first time in years that I’ve thought of someone else’s needs before my own,_ he mused, and set along his way.

Humiliation, anger, confusion, and sadness fought for control in Draco’s heart. His _mother_ had seen what he had done to Granger. Knowing how his mother felt about violence against women, Draco was stunned that she hadn’t hexed his balls off then and there. He remembered vividly a conversation they’d had many years ago. He’d only been about eight years old and had witnessed a man treating a woman roughly while they’d been strolling at the park. His mother had told him that no matter what, it was utterly wrong for a man to hurt a woman, and that the incident they’d seen was a disgrace to all gentlemen. He’d taken it very seriously then. As far as he knew, his father, as angry as he’d been with his wife at times, had never raised a hand to her. Draco felt certain that she’d have left him if he’d done it even once. How had he unlearned those fundamental lessons? Who or what had undone the values his mother had instilled in him? Why?

Where was his mother now? Why had she let people believe she’d died? Just whom should he be angry with? Did his father have a hand in this? Had they really been at the Manor, and had she been there concealing her true identity from him? How and why was she in contact with a formerly estranged sister – an aunt about whom he’d known nothing? The questions kept coming and there were no answers to be had.

He managed to trudge his way through about a half mile of icy, overgrown pathway, and was rapidly tiring. It wasn’t easy to walk through such deep pilings of snow and dead foliage. The pain was welcome; he felt it was a penance. What he felt in his aching legs was dwarfed by the constriction in his chest. If he weren’t so young, he’d have suspected heart failure. Maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched. It was a failure of his heart, but of a different kind. The tears he’d held at bay since leaving the house returned with a vengeance, growing rapidly into sobs that wracked his ribs. On one level, he felt foolish. He hadn’t wept so much since he was a toddler. On another, this release was cathartic, cleansing. What was causing his emotions to be so turbulent and profound? Was this guilt for his misdeeds? Remorse for his unspeakable crimes? Why now, after all this time?

Drying his tears and wiping his nose with the sleeve of his cloak as he’d never even done as a small child – Merlin forbid a Malfoy without a proper handkerchief – he straightened and took in his surroundings, noticing that the forest hadn’t given way to clearing and appeared to go on for quite a distance. He saw no other homesteads and heard only the occasional chirp of a hearty winter bird and the rustle of small rodents in the underbrush. He stopped to rest on a toppled tree trunk, brushing the snow away with the hem of his cloak. Wherever they were, the landscape was deserted and devoid of signs of civilization. A perfect refuge, he thought. Or hideout. Or safe-house. “Oh, shit,” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

As fast as his aching legs and frozen feet would allow, he trudged back along the way he’d come, intent on making it back to the little cottage. He approached the porch and hefted three of the larger logs stacked against the exterior wall to ensure they’d have enough firewood for the rest of the night. Twisting the doorknob while trying to balance the wood, he had to resort to pushing the door open with his foot to prevent dropping the heavy, awkward load onto the floor, or worse, his feet. “Granger, I’ve had an idea – and we need to talk about it,” he announced. To an empty room.

His heart pounded in his throat as he took in the vacant space. The blankets she’d had draped over her legs were on the floor, but nothing else seemed out of place. Draco dropped the logs beside the hearth and glanced through to the kitchen. There was no sign of her. “Granger!” he called, but received no response. Seconds later he heard a rustling of fabric, coming from the direction of the bedroom in which they’d slept last night. He darted there and flung the door open to find Hermione, snuggling into the stack of blankets and linens. He released his pent-up breath and felt relief wash over him.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he challenged.

“Uh, resting?” she replied hoarsely, roused from her brief nap unexpectedly.

“How did you get here? You couldn’t even stand on your own an hour ago!” he accused.

“I crawled.”

“You what?!”

“Crawled. I had to go, you hadn’t come back yet, and I didn’t know how much longer you’d be. So I rolled off the sofa and crawled to the bathroom. I didn’t think I was quite strong enough to make it all the way back, so I decided to rest here for a while,” she explained, keeping her tone carefully neutral. No use in getting him any more upset than he already was, she thought.

“You scared the shit out of me, Granger! I thought someone had kidnapped you or something. Don’t do that again!” He sat heavily on the side of the bed, facing away from her momentarily.

She couldn’t help but snigger, it was all so incongruous. “You tried to kill me two days ago, Malfoy, and now you’re worried about me? That’s rich.”

“Well excuse me if I’ve had an attack of conscience,” he sniffed. “We both know something… inexplicable is going on here. And we both have to deal with it. And we’re back to ‘Malfoy’ now? What happened to ‘Draco’?”

“I was annoyed. I call you ‘Malfoy’ when I’m annoyed,” she replied, carefully levering herself up into a recumbent position.

“Fair enough, Granger,” he tilted his head in acquiescence. “So, are you alright? Didn’t hurt anything else along your little journey, I hope?”

“Just a little tired, but no, I don’t think I strained anything. Thank you for your concern, though.”

She spied the tiniest smirk on his face; it reminded her a little of the cheeky boy he’d been in third and fourth years. That was almost comforting. “You ran in here with your hair on fire, and I’m sure it wasn’t just because I wasn’t where you expected me to be. What’s up?”

“Oh, yes. You’re right. I wanted to talk to you about something that struck me while I was out… for my, uh, walk. It really could be quite extraordinary. Wait – hair on fire?”

“Muggle expression – forget it. Don’t keep me in suspense. Spill it, Malfoy,” she commanded.

“You may not be so annoyed with me when you hear this, Missy.”

“Fine. Draco, with what brilliant thought will you grace me?” she teased.

“I was wandering around in the snow, well, in the forest, and I noticed that there was nothing around. No other buildings, no clearings, no civilization, just nothing. And I thought what a great refuge this was. That got my brain ticking. What if this was meant to be a hideaway, or maybe even a safe-house, Granger? What if my mother sent me, or us, here on purpose?”

“Wow. That sure is one hell of an interesting thought, Draco. If we were at Malfoy Manor, why would she have wanted to send you away? And why would she have sent me along with you?”

“I have no idea what her motivation would have been for either scenario. You’d have to ask her. But you said you’re nearly certain it was my mother?” Draco bent over, untied his wet boots and tugged them off, resolving to set them by the fireplace to dry later. He pivoted on the bed and rested his back against the headboard, crossing his ankles and stretching his legs to their full length.

Hermione quirked one eyebrow at his new position beside her, but decided not to pass comment. “We’ve already established that, yes.”

“”So, if you think about how Portkeys work, she would have had to know the location. It’s not unlike Apparating. You have to know exactly where you’re going for it to work. They are keyed to a specific address, and can even be pinned to a particular room.”

“Okay, so either she or whoever made the Portkey knew about this place. What does that tell us?”

“Hmmm. You have a point about ‘whoever made the Portkey’ because if that were the case, she could have activated it without knowing where it would send us. So that sort of puts us back at square one, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. Do you think your mother would send you somewhere if she had no idea where you’d end up?”

“She would if she thought that my staying where I was posed the greater danger.”

“That’s probably true. So let’s assume for argument’s sake that either she or someone she trusts to at least some degree knows where the Portkey would send you. We need to think about what other conclusions that could support and what other questions that would raise. I wish I had a parchment and quill to keep track of all of this,” Hermione grumbled.

“Sorry, completely out of parchment, Granger. You’ll have to use that gigantic brain of yours to create mental charts and graphs,” he ribbed.

She rolled her eyes, but held her tongue once again. “Let’s tackle the conclusions first, then deal with the questions. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure. Fire away. What conclusions have you reached?”

“Well, first is that _someone_ knows where we are. Second is that at least one person knew that I’d been, um, injured. Next is that your mother knows that we’re probably together. Another thing we can assume is that someone did intend to use this place as either a safe-house or hideout, because there were supplies here that probably wouldn’t have been if the house were truly abandoned. Any arguments against these yet?”

“No, it all sounds reasonable to me so far,” he agreed.

“Good. We’ve also determined that there’s something going on with your memory. You’re having trouble remembering things you did before a couple of days ago, and you get violent headaches when you make an effort to recall past events. It’s very likely that you’ve been under the influence of either spells or potions or both for an extended period. Yes?”

“Yes. I’d have to agree.”

“But you also don’t have any ideas about who would do that to you and why. And you also have no idea about the source of the, um, contamination.”

“Correct again. 'Contamination' is an interesting word choice, Granger. Any particular reason you view it that way?”

“Yes. I think whatever has been happening to you has been subverting your true nature.”

“Huh. What do you think my true nature is, Granger?” Draco crossed his arms over his chest, waiting to hear what she’d have to say.

“I think that your nature is more kind and tolerant than what you’ve been displaying in the last five years. I think there is probably a reasonably open-minded man under all that hate and violence.”

“How can you be sure of that, Granger?”

“Well, I can’t. But think about it, Draco. What have you been doing for the last thirty-six hours or so?”

“Besides trying to stay warm?”

“Yeah. You’ve been taking care of me. And you’ve been getting upset whenever you recall some event that has you in the center of violence. You’ve been worried about how other people are feeling and reacting to you and your behavior. Are those things that a murderous psychopath would care about?”

“Probably not.”

“Definitely not.”

“Maybe I’ve been trying to lull you into a sense of security to finish you off.”

“That’s ludicrous. If you really wanted to finish me off, you’ve had numerous opportunities to do that, including those ‘compulsions’ you were hearing. You actively rejected those.”

Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and turned away from her. “Well, there was one time that I almost gave in. I put my hand on your throat for a moment. I’m sorry, Granger, but that’s the truth.”

She couldn’t deny feeling a bit unsettled at his confession, but there was no doubt that the fact that he’d trusted both her and himself enough to reveal that misdeed meant that his conscience was pushing him in better directions. Hermione reached out and put her arm on his bicep, tugging him back to face her. “That just proves my point, Draco. You stopped before any damage was done. _You_ made that decision. It wasn’t made for you.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,” he acknowledged. “So, if we’ve decided that I’m not a murderous bastard, at least today, what else do we know?”

“I think that’s all we can be relatively sure of – unless you can think of anything more,” she prompted.

“No, I’m fresh out of certainties for the day. Let’s move on to the questions. What do you have?”

“Well, first is the question of where we really were after our group was captured in the raid. Do you know, Draco? You didn’t say anything when I told you earlier what I thought.”

He pursed his lips with hesitation. “It could very well have been the Manor. The Dark Lord has been using it for years as a base of operations because of the intense security measures that were already in place, and because of the old dungeons. The wards have only been enhanced over the years, so it’s nearly impenetrable,” he answered. “The truth is that I honestly don’t remember specifically being there in the last few days. It’s very likely, because I do still live there when I’m not travelling.”

“For argument’s sake, let’s say that we were there. If your mother had been trying to fake her death, would she have been able to wander around the Manor incognito?”

He shook his head vehemently. “If she was trying to keep it from my father? Absolutely not. The wards will admit blood and by-marriage Malfoys without harm, but if she’d been declared dead, it would have raised alarms if she tried to come onto the property. It would assume that someone was using Polyjuice potion to impersonate her, and she’d have never made it through the front gate, never mind into the Manor itself. On the other hand, if my father knew that her death was a ruse, it would have been incredibly easy for her to move about the property at will. She would have been recognized instantly as a rightful family member and the Lady of the Manor. Everyone else who enters needs to be keyed to the wards by one of the three of us - my role being the Heir of the Manor - or they will be stunned into oblivion. It’s not an easy place to drop in for a visit.”

“Well, how does it allow prisoners to enter then?”

“Prisoners are tagged with a binding spell of sorts – something that was formerly used for servants and day workers – that renders their magic dormant while on the estate unless released for use on the property by the Lord of the Manor. It also allows passage on and around the grounds when accompanied by at least one Malfoy. Since I was apparently with the group that was captured, it would have been my responsibility to tag all of you and then escort everyone into the dungeons. So I guess that means that I must have been there. That question we can now deem answered, I’ll wager.”

“Is that the only way that uninvited guests can get in?” she wondered.

“Technically, no. But that would mean that my father, mother or I would have to drop the wards to a minimum security level. I’m not aware of any time that has happened other than when my parents have hosted galas. That hasn’t happened since before the war began. Even then, people are checked against a guest list as they request entry either by Floo or at the external Apparation point that is typically arranged just for that evening.”

“That tells us that if your mother is indeed alive, it is almost certain that your father knows and was involved in staging her death. The other question is, why would they want you – and everyone else – to believe that she’d died?”

“Protection of some sort? Can’t say for sure, but that seems most likely,” Draco offered.

“From whom or what?” Hermione challenged.

“Well, as we’ve already discussed, my mother’s sympathies are not as tied to the Dark Lord’s as some other purebloods. Maybe she’d angered him and my father was trying to shield her,” he postulated.

“Even with your father being Voldemort’s right hand man?” she accused.

“My father’s position within the Dark Lord’s inner circle is not always secure. He has fallen out of favor now and again.”

“And how does that affect your own position?”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling very Swiss-cheesy about that. If the vague memories I do have are correct, I don’t spend much time with my father or with the Dark Lord. I get orders and do what I’m told. I think they use me as a killing machine,” he spoke quietly, averting his eyes from her shocked stare.

“S, s, so you weren’t using hyperbole when you said you had so much blood on your hands?” she stuttered out.

“I wish I were, but no. I wasn’t exaggerating,” he admitted, dropping his gaze to the hands he’d clasped at his waist. “I don’t remember much of anything in the way of details, but I have flashes of the faces of people that I’ve killed. I’ve lost count, there have been so many. The first was Severus Snape.”

Hermione gasped. She’d heard rumors that Draco had been responsible for the Potions Master’s demise, but had never heard any eyewitness accounts so she’d taken it as lore. This was an outright confession. “How? Why? I thought he was your favorite teacher,” she probed.

“The Dark Lord strongly suspected that he had turned away from him and switched allegiances to Dumbledore. When Snape refused to kill the old man, I was ordered to kill Snape for his failure. That, I remember. Don’t know why, but that specific event is burned into my brain. It was one of my first loyalty tests, and a failure to deliver would have been a death sentence for me and my whole family. I ambushed him several months after Hogwarts closed,” he stated, speaking barely loud enough for her to hear. Tension began to build behind his eyes, and he feared that this exercise in recall would now trigger another blinding headache. “Can we not talk about this right now? You know what happens when I try to dig up old memories. Please.”

“Yeah, sure. But we’ve been talking about past events quite a lot for the last hour and you haven’t had one of those episodes yet. Any idea why?”

“I think it may be that you are the one telling the story. When I dig around in my brain seems to be the impetus. Just hearing you talk about something doesn’t seem to affect me the same way.”

“You know, something just occurred to me. We’ve been isolated for the last couple of days. You’ve undoubtedly been away from whatever influence has been affecting you. Maybe some of the side-effects or compulsions are starting to wear off. What have you not been exposed to in the last couple of days that you typically would be?” she asked.

“Uh, how about everything?” he snipped.

“You have a point there,” she acknowledged, blushing lightly at her obvious logical error.

“And honestly, Granger, if I’ve been under some kind of spell or potion influence for five years, do you really think it would wear off in two days? Not likely.”

“So why do you think your, uh, thinking has changed so much in that same short time?”

“Huh. _You_ have a point there,” he agreed.

“There’s got to be a trigger point. Someone knows something about it. We just have to figure out whom. And my guess is that whoever sent us here is a good place to start.”


	19. Embattled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con sexual and slightly incestuous activity.

_**Three Years and Four Months Ago** _

It had been nearly a year since the last student set foot in Hogwarts castle for the purposes of formal education. Ten long months since a class convened in these ancient halls. But that didn’t mean that learning had halted. To the contrary, there was a secreted group of young fighters using the erstwhile school as a research facility and base of operations.

The idea had been left behind by their former Potions Master in a note tucked among the vast array of prepared potions, rare ingredients, and sheaves of battle strategies for both the Dark and Light. He’d sketched out dozens of likely scenarios, contingencies, and countermeasures in minute detail. It was clear he’d worked on these documents for months, not just the short ten days that they’d known that the school would be shuttered. It caused the hidden fledgling soldiers to see their former teacher in a new light. He really had been in their camp the whole time. That he’d found ways to continue to assist their research and planning after he’d disappeared underground had been nothing short of miraculous. His recent murder had been an immeasurable emotional and tactical blow. In the midst of their mourning for his loss, they had all hoped that they would continue to find his gems of wisdom and inspiration among the vast stores that he’d left behind.

The group keeping cover in plain sight at Hogwarts had been individually and personally invited to stay on as “laboratory assistants” for the remaining professors by Headmaster Dumbledore. They all met certain criteria; each would turn at least sixteen by the end of what would have been the current school year, each was a capable witch or wizard who excelled in at least one discipline, and each had taken an Unbreakable Vow to support the cause of fighting for the Light against the Dark Wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort. The assembly was comprised of eight Gryffindors, six Ravenclaws, and five Hufflepuffs. There were no Slytherin representatives among them, to no one’s great surprise.

Fred, George, and Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and of course, Harry Potter made up the contingent from the red-and-gold house. Ron Weasley, while with them in spirit, continued to be a resident of the long-term care ward at St. Mungo’s. There was no telling if or when he’d recover sufficiently to join his friends in the war effort. He’d only just begun to take solid nutrients, and his motor functions were still equivalent to those of a very young toddler. The Healers had marveled that he’d survived at all, but were not especially hopeful for a positive prognosis.

Cho Chang, Anthony Goldstein, Lisa Turpin, Terry Boot, Michael Corner, and Mandy Brocklehurst represented the Ravenclaws. The Hufflepuff refugees were Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Megan Jones.

Most of the nineteen teenagers were training alongside members of the Order of the Phoenix under the guidance of a small contingent of Aurors, most of whom were also pledged to the Order. A tiny team of two was otherwise occupied. Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom were embroiled in the most important research project ever undertaken by a witch or wizard. They were charged with discovering the likely items and their respective locations that were the hiding places for pieces of Voldemort’s soul. None of them had ever heard the term “Horcrux” before they’d been set upon this quest. Now it consumed every waking moment and haunted every nightmare. Once the items were identified and located, it would be primarily Harry’s job to dispose of them. He wouldn’t be unaided, but the burden would most certainly fall most heavily on his own seventeen-year-old shoulders.

They’d been afforded a head start by the fact that two known Horcruxes had already been destroyed. Their research, facilitated profoundly by the documentation and insights left behind by Severus Snape, had yielded evidence that at least four more existed, with the possibility of a seventh. Throughout his exile, Snape had found ways to continually forward new clues and ideas, and they’d had solid leads on at least two objects within weeks of beginning their search. It had taken another two months, but those dark objects had ceased to pose a threat to the future of the wizarding world when they were demolished by Harry and his Headmaster. They were better than half-way through their mission when the skirmishes that had occurred with some regularity exploded into full-blown warfare.

Death Eaters had begun to target Muggle-born witches and wizards early in the conflict, and added terror to their strategies by slaughtering extended families including aunts, uncles, and cousins once parents, siblings, and grandparents had been “expunged.” Among the first families targeted were the Grangers. Despite Hermione’s attempts to hide her mother and father overseas, they’d been discovered and brutally murdered. Two uncles, an aunt, and four cousins had been next on the list. They were not the only victims, by far. Justin’s family had been among the early losses, and it was sheer luck that he’d not been counted with the dead. He’d returned to Hogwarts after a visit with his family only two hours before the Killing Squad had struck.

It quickly became clear that Muggle-borns’ families were an enticing target, being so defenseless against Dark Magic, but not the only ones. It seemed that every time a gathering of more than two or three Light sympathizers was convened, they became fodder for a Death Eater raid. All these months later, the Order still had been unable to determine how Voldemort and his minions knew where and when these meetings were being held. They’d been so careful in their communication and in who was trusted with that information. The Unbreakable Vows they’d all taken virtually guaranteed that there would be no traitors, but somehow the venues had been compromised time and again. The death toll mounted rapidly.

But the Death Eaters had suffered their own casualties, too. The Order had developed their own stealthy strike methods and had killed or captured nearly one-third of the known active supporters of the Dark Lord. The mounting losses began to weigh heavily on everyone, and many began to question the wisdom of continuing the fight.

Lucius Malfoy was one such wizard. He’d known from the start that the Light side had larger numbers and better leadership. He’d recognized that the advantage originally held by the Dark Lord in ruthlessness and zealousness could be quickly bridged. The problem for Lucius and his family was their long-standing support and funding of Dark and conservative pureblood policies. His position in the Ministry and with his Wizengamot seat had always been to preserve the old ways and to give preference to purebloods in everything from taxation to job assignments. His record was well known. With the growing casualty list on both sides, the tide of public opinion had begun to turn, however, and the Malfoys were on the wrong side of the breakwater, at least overtly. Something would have to change, but any transition would be complicated and messy. It would take every bit of Slytherin cunning that he’d ever had to allow his family to emerge alive, if not unscathed.

Lucius’ wife Narcissa had for months been avoiding any contact with her husband’s “business associates” and had claimed frail health more than once when her presence had been requested either by Voldemort himself or her sister Bellatrix at various Death Eater meetings and revels. The Dark Lord had been effectively silenced on this matter when Lucius spoke of her “womanly troubles” in begging excuse for her absence. The Malfoy patriarch had found that there was no quicker way to get a topic changed than to bring up the female reproductive system at a Death Eater meeting. For this, he and his wife were most grateful.

The truth of Narcissa’s condition was that it was all a ruse in which they both participated to the fullest extent. She had made it clear that she would have nothing to do with the Dark Side fight, and her resolve only grew as she saw her son become more embroiled in the brutality. Narcissa lamented the loss of Draco as though he’d died; the change in him was so dramatic.

_Three Months Earlier…_

_“Lucius, this has been going on for months. I don’t recognize that young man any longer. He may walk around in my son’s body, but what’s inside is not the Draco I brought into this world,” she avowed._

_Lucius’ reply, for once, was supportive and confirming. “I must agree that there is something exceptionally odd happening with him. I’ve had occasion to observe him at raids and revels several times, and the, uh, pleasure he takes in what he does is …unnatural. Fighting in battles results in deaths and injuries, and that’s the definition of what we do in a war, but there’s something else going on. It’s…troubling.”_

_“What do you mean … ‘unnatural pleasure’?” she probed, fearful that she already knew the answer._

_“Uh, sexual gratification,” he mumbled in response, uncharacteristic embarrassment staining his cheeks. “In the extreme.”_

_Narcissa’s retort was a gasp followed immediately by a dash to her private bath in as ladylike fashion as she could muster. When she returned, her dignity gathered back around her like a cashmere cloak, she posed another question. “Has he become a sadist, like Bella?”_

_“I’d say that’s accurate,” Lucius sadly acknowledged._

_“Then it’s time, Lucius. We must develop an exit strategy, even if it means going so far as faking our deaths and hiding permanently on another continent. The war is not going well, and you know it. It’s only a matter of time before the Dark Lord falls in defeat, I feel quite certain.”_

_“I can’t deny that the war has not been going as well as the Dark Lord would prefer, but I wouldn’t say that his defeat is either imminent or sure, Narcissa. He’s had a great deal of success lately in recruiting other … magical beings to his side. What makes you think the way you do?” he challenged._

_She hesitated briefly before speaking. “Lucius, I must insist that before we speak further we invoke the marriage vow rite.”_

_Lucius raised an eyebrow in surprise. This request was possibly the most extraordinary thing he’d ever heard. The marriage vow rite was the most sacred magic that could be cast. It superseded even the Unbreakable Vow in secrecy and in consequences. Its breach would not only nullify a marriage and render its violator dead, but had the power to negate all effects of the marriage. In simplest terms, it could make the offspring of the union simply cease to exist as though they’d never been born. If his wife felt that strongly about what she was about to share, it was dire indeed._

_“I see,” he whispered, and nodded his head in acquiescence. That Narcissa was ready and able to perform the rite meant that she’d been thinking about this for some time. This was not a part of a magical human’s typical spell repertoire._

_Narcissa extended her hand to her husband of twenty-four years and guided him to his knees. She joined him on her knees with all the grace of the pureblood Lady that she was and when they were face to face and hip to hip, she instructed him to encircle her with his arms. She replicated his action so that they were tightly embracing. This rite was so powerful that a wand would not be necessary._

_“By right of marriage, I invoke this vow. As solemn as our oath of fidelity, as intimate as our marriage bed, as secret as the depths of our hearts, let no magic, no person, no circumstance penetrate what we henceforth share. On pain of death for us and our progeny, so mote it be.”_

_He hesitated only a fraction of a second before accepting the vow. “So mote it be.”_

_“This vow must be sealed in the same way as our original pledge of marriage.”_

_Lucius gently and reverently kissed his wife, recreating the sacramental and consecratory kiss that they’d shared so many years earlier. His eyes drifted shut briefly as he touched his forehead to hers, feeling both overcome with the waves of powerful magic that coursed their bodies and anxious about what his wife was about to tell him._

_They rose together and sat side by side on the blue velvet sofa in their bedroom._

_“What do you have to say to me, Narcissa, that requires a vow so grave?”_

_“I’ve been keeping several important things from you, Lucius. But now you need to know.”_

_He took her hand in encouragement, and shifted slightly in his seat to face her more fully. At his nod, she continued._

_“For more than a year, I’ve been reunited with my sister Andromeda, and I’ve been meeting with her regularly,” she confessed, waiting while he absorbed the implications._

_“Well, that’s clearly an enormous surprise,” he acknowledged. “But there is obviously more to it than a family reunion.”_

_“You know that Andy has a daughter? She’s an Auror and a member of the Order. I’ve been feeding them any information I pick up from either you or Bella for months. I’ve also led them to believe that it was with your knowledge and permission.”_

_Lucius was not one who was easily stunned, but this revelation was almost too much for him to comprehend. He gaped at his wife, unable to form the questions in his mind into words that he could utter._

_“Tell me why you’ve done this, Narcissa,” he pleaded, not willing to leap to inaccurate conclusions._

_“We needed to establish a way out. I’ve found it. It won’t be quick, and it won’t be easy, but I think the path I’ve set us on will allow us to escape with our lives. I’m hopeful that somewhere along the way we’ll be able to discover why Draco has embraced his aunt’s depraved lifestyle and bring him back to us, but my worst fear is that he may already be completely lost. Are you willing to listen to my plan? Are you finally ready to consider abandoning this folly for the sake of our family?”_

_He rose from the sofa and paced the room slowly, running a hand over his face. “Do you realize what you’re asking me to do, Narcissa? This is incredibly dangerous! If you tell me your plan, the Dark Lord could discover it during his frequent Legilimency forays. I’m skilled at Occlumency, but not enough to block him consistently.”_

_“I know, Lucius, but I think it’s worth the risk. If we don’t leave him, we will end up dead anyway. I’d rather we die knowing we’ve acted with courage and dignity rather than as battle fodder for that madman,” she stated firmly._

_He stopped his frantic pacing and dropped back onto the sofa, knowing that he’d reached the point of no return. He would hear her plan, and would likely agree to it, because it was clear that she was right. Regardless of short-term gains and victorious battles, the likelihood of the Dark Lord prevailing in the long term was rapidly diminishing._

_“Tell me.”_

_Narcissa cleared her throat and began her tale. “Many months ago, just before Draco took the Mark, you remember that I left for several days to have some time to think. Before I returned, I sent a letter to Andromeda with a request that we meet. She agreed to see me, and I spent three days with her before I returned to the Manor. We reconciled when I told her that I regretted my opposition to her marriage, and she forgave me. We’ve been in contact ever since. I’ve told her that I have been questioning the whole basis for this conflict, and that I no longer support the Dark Lord’s goals. Since then, I’ve been aiding the Order in any way that I can by sharing anything that I think may be of value.”_

_“And what does this mean for the future? What is your plan?”_

_“I know that there are still likely to be many months of war before this madness ends, but I will do whatever I can to hasten that outcome. I want you to assist us by giving us more information that will be useful in bringing down the Dark Lord. In exchange, the Order will shield us – including Draco – should that become necessary. For this to work, however, there will be a price to pay.”_

_“And what is that price?”_

_“My death…”_

_“What?! That’s ridiculous and I wo..”_

_Narcissa interrupted his rant with a raised hand and a smile on her face. “Let me finish, Lucius, before you jump off the precipice. My death will be staged. It will allow me to operate without the restrictions placed on the wife of Lucius Malfoy, and you will still be able to play your role as a ‘loyal’ supporter of the Dark Lord while funneling intelligence to the Order through me.”_

_Not yet convinced of the wisdom of this approach, Lucius rose once again to retrace his earlier worried steps. “How would this work?”_

_“Sit down, Lucius. You’re going to wear out the floor,” she warned, a sly smile gracing her delicate features. She knew she’d won. “I will begin feigning an illness, of the ‘female trouble’ sort. No one in the Death Eater ranks would dare question or interfere in a matter so personal. The duration of my ailment can draw out as long as necessary to establish as much intelligence and build enough of an exit plan so that we are fully protected. I am most pained to say this, but I think it will be unavoidable to keep the truth from Draco. He cannot be trusted to keep our confidence in his current state, I fear.”_

_“I would agree that you’d have no meddling under that scenario, with the possible exception of your sister Bella.” When Lucius saw his wife shake her head in denial, he continued. “And I agree that we should not involve Draco. He’s too unstable. But how would you maintain contact with me?”_

_“That could get a little tricky, but not impossible. Andy and Ted have offered me their hospitality and I can come back to the Manor periodically under a heavy glamour. No one would begrudge you ‘company’ - after a sufficient period of mourning, of course.”_

_“You’ve obviously been thinking about this for some time, Cissy. I must confess I’m a bit unsettled that you’ve gone so far in your planning without sharing any of this with me.”_

_“I’m sorry, dear, but I had to be certain that you’d be receptive before I told you what I’ve been doing. It’s only in the last several weeks that I’ve seen your anxiety and dissatisfaction become more pronounced. I felt the time was right to speak now. I apologize if I’ve hurt you by my deception, but please understand that I’ve done it all for us.”_

Once Lucius’ agreement had been secured, Narcissa had set her plan into motion. There really wasn’t all that much to do; the most challenging element was convincing people she felt unwell. A little less blush, a little more powder, a pale yellow robe – each contributed to a look of pallor that exceeded her normal dainty complexion. Soon, people began inquiring after her health on a regular basis and her illness was unquestioned.

Lucius had done his part convincingly, acting the concerned husband and showing worry lines on his face with increasing frequency. What his associates did not know was the true source of his disquiet. He had begun to feed information more regularly to the Order through Narcissa’s contacts with her sister and niece. He was petrified that he’d be discovered and executed before their plan to subvert the Dark Lord and escape with their lives intact could come to fruition.

The information Lucius supplied had assisted the team at Hogwarts in confirming the seventh Horcrux. While the additional fragment was unwelcome news, the clarity it provided was necessary and appreciated. What Potter and company did not yet know was the source of their intelligence. Their unknown benefactor’s identity would be revealed in months to come in a most surprising manner.

But today, Dumbledore’s Army, as they’d come to call themselves, were celebrating another victory. One more Horcrux was gone.

When Severus had been ambushed and murdered a few months earlier, they had worried that their source of insight into Death Eater strategies and mentality was lost forever. It was only two months later that a new source had begun to trickle in data that proved to be immensely useful. The intelligence they’d gained had allowed them to locate and destroy the fifth Horcrux and had confirmed the existence of the seventh. The location and identity of the last two pieces of evil were maddeningly elusive, however. A strategy meeting of the Order was convened to brainstorm new ideas and tactics to find the missing items.

“We’ve been all over Great Britain and Europe, Professor, and it’s incredibly frustrating to think we’re no closer to success with these last items than we were six months ago,” Hermione whined.

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore admonished. “After all, we’ve confirmed that there is in fact a seventh element. Six months ago, we had only identified and destroyed two Horcruxes. We’ve clearly made significant progress.”

Sighing deeply, she acknowledged the truth of his statement. “I know you’re right. It just feels like we’re stuck in quicksand right now. The more we try to dig out, the deeper we get. Thank Merlin for Professor Snape’s research, sir, because we’d have been lost without it. I know we didn’t see him at all after he fled Hogwarts, but his presence was so rich by virtue of what he left behind and what he sent to us. I never thought I’d ever say it, but I miss him,” the curly-haired Gryffindor sniffed sadly.

She sat silently as plans and ideas swirled around the room, lost in thought about the event that had taken their most valuable agent from them. There had been a sudden flurry of especially violent activity and the result had been an enormous increase in civilian casualties. Dumbledore and crew had been desperate to stem the flow of blood and had put out several feelers to see if any new sources could be developed. Word had apparently reached someone who claimed to have critical intelligence. There was a catch, however. The source would only share the information with a Slytherin, under a ridiculously stringent set of conditions, and the only green-and-silver house alumnus at their disposal was the former Potions professor. After much discussion and numerous entreaties to ignore what was probably a trap, Snape had sent word that the risks of snubbing the informant were greater than the jeopardy to their operative. He would go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

While Draco Malfoy’s departure from Hogwarts had been anticlimactic, his life in the ensuing months had been a series of tests, trials, and battles. His opponents had come from every angle. The Dark Lord’s fury at Snape’s escape and Dumbledore’s survival had meant several painful sessions under the Cruciatus curse for his young acolyte. As the target of Bella’s wand, Draco had learned quickly that one did not fail a mission and escape punishment.

Draco had returned to Malfoy Manor immediately when the school had been closed, on his father’s orders. The senior Malfoy had insisted that he continue some form of self-education and had locked his son inside the Manor’s massive library for three hours a day for the first two months after his return to Wiltshire. Lucius had employed a tutor who periodically tested Draco’s progress and reported results of the teen’s successes – and failures – in Potions, Charms, Transfiguration and Dark Arts. Voldemort’s youngest Death Eater had excelled in two topics and barely passed muster in the other two, and had complained loudly and often that Charms and Transfiguration would do little to help in ensuring his success in battle.

What Lucius did not know was that his son was taking other lessons of a less academic nature. While the senior Malfoy attended to business at the Ministry or in one of their innumerable commercial holdings, Draco was still busy taking on new skills. An hour or two each day was consumed by training in subterfuge, espionage, and torture – often with live targets – led by Draco’s Aunt Bella and Uncle Rod. That his reward for a lesson well-learned was a large box of his favorite chocolate truffles went unquestioned.

Bella, upon pronouncing Draco’s private tutoring essentially complete, began to assign missions and projects for the young wizard, and his list of quick successes gained him a bit of a reprieve from the intense scrutiny of the Dark Lord. He had been convinced by Bella to see Draco’s renewed enthusiasm as atonement for his earlier missteps in failing to kill both Severus Snape and the Mudblood Hermione Granger, although Draco had been frequently reminded that those two assignments still stood as active. It was with this in mind that he took to the dark and narrow paths of Knockturn Alley and the slightly more active streets of Diagon Alley.

The young blond had become especially adept at self-concealment and was a true master of the Disillusionment spell. He’d even learned to mask his scent and muffle the sound of his own breathing to such a degree that he could stand within an inch or two of a target and remain completely undiscovered. It was by this strategy that he learned of the quest for strategic intelligence upon which Albus Dumbledore had embarked. The clever teen recognized an opportunity to either spread some disinformation or draw out an Order spy from deep cover. It would be a great boon if it was one of his two key targets, but he would need a bit of assistance to accomplish either goal.

“Aunt Bella, I need some advice,” he’d stated the next time she visited for one of their extracurricular endeavors.

“Anything for my darling nephew,” she cooed, drawing a long finger across the light stubble he’d left unshaved on his jaw. She pretended not to notice when he shivered at her touch, endlessly amused that he was either revolted or aroused by the contact.

He drew away slightly, pacing back and forth in an effort to demonstrate either his discomfort with her or his concern for the problem he’d mentioned – he wasn’t really sure which the case was. “I overheard something on one of my reconnaissance missions and I’m not exactly sure what to do with it. I see a couple of possibilities, but I’m not certain which would gain us best advantage.”

“Tell me what you heard, and what you think your options are, and I will guide you to the best decision,” she’d offered.

“It seems that the old man is desperate to develop new intelligence sources, and he’s put out the word among some people that he thinks are trustworthy in Diagon Alley. I was there when two old hags were discussing the wisdom of getting involved on either side. It seemed wise to keep my mouth shut and listen, and that’s how I heard about his plea for help.”

“Interesting,” Bella mused, mostly to herself. “Either their sources are not getting what they need or have been compromised so as to be unhelpful.” She suddenly roused herself from her internal monologue and remembered her nephew’s anxious presence. She bade him to continue with a wave of her hand. “And?”

“I thought of two ways that we could gain some leverage. The first would be to spread some false information to trip them up. The second would be to use it as a chance to draw out and ambush one of their top spies.” He waited patiently, wondering how his mentor would respond.

“I think the fact that they are searching out new sources tells us that we don’t need to waste time with sending them on wild goose chases; they’re confused enough. The better opportunity would be to lure and eliminate one of their own, and put them even further in the hole. But I can tell, Draco, you are thinking something more. What’s on your mind?”

He was grateful that Bella’s skills in Legilimency were not as advanced as her Occlumency. Regardless of the fact that he’d share his thoughts with her anyway, he despised the feeling of someone poking around in his brain. His own Occlumency skills were superb, but he didn’t like to exercise them if it was unnecessary; it was draining in the extreme. “What if we could ensnare someone specific? Like one of the two people the Dark Lord still wishes me to eliminate?”

“Now you are thinking strategically, Draco!” she enthused. “I think the Dark Lord would be most pleased if you could dispose of the traitor. Your position would be greatly enhanced if you were successful.”

Draco beamed at her praise of his idea. “My thoughts exactly. But how can we get him to come out of hiding?”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, and tapped a blood-red fingernail against her lips, letting potential tactics flow through her thoughts. “Do you think you could find at least one of those old hags again?”

“Not a problem. They hang around Diagon Alley almost every day. Why?”

“How are you coming with the silent casting of Imperius?” she asked, an idea having clearly taken hold.

“Making good progress, I’d say. Another day or two of practice and I should be ready.”

“Good. I’ll give you a prisoner to work with this afternoon, then. We’ll talk about next steps once you’ve demonstrated your prowess. I’ll test you at the end of the day,” she announced. “Let’s have some lunch.” 

Draco escorted his aunt into the small family dining room where they had their fill of sliced cold meats, cheeses, bread and mead. The light meal was capped by a generous serving of the young man’s favorite chocolate treats. He was now most eager to get started on his afternoon of practice.

Bellatrix had selected a young female of about fifteen to serve as Draco’s target for the afternoon. She was the only daughter of a blood traitor and a Mudblood, and had been captured just three days earlier. It was past time that she learned her place, and Bella felt sure that the girl would provide a most entertaining diversion for both herself and her nephew.

The dungeon’s “classroom” was cold, damp, and dark no matter what time of year, and the thin cotton robe, already torn and dirty, offered no protection for the hapless girl who now found herself bound hand and foot in the oddly-equipped space. She had been drugged for the duration of her time in captivity at Malfoy Manor, but had just been fed a potion that minimized the effects. Apparently, she would need to have enough facility to move on her own.

As she gazed around from her perch on a low wooden bench, she noted a stone slab of about two meters square that was supported by two vertical marble supports to about waist height. There were chains affixed to walls, wire cages, a collection of leather whips, and metal implements that looked suspiciously like knives, though they were far enough away from her vision that she couldn’t be certain. Great, she thought, a torture chamber. Her young age did not equate with total naiveté. She was an only daughter, but was the youngest of four. Her three older brothers felt it was their duty to protect and equip her with knowledge. Today, she was wishing they’d ensured her ignorance. For now, she could do nothing but wait.

It was only a few short moments later when the heavy wooden door banged open and Draco Malfoy entered, accompanied by his aunt. Bellatrix raised her wand and cast a quick Crucio spell purely for her own amusement. She only held the curse for a few seconds; not knowing what Draco had planned, she wanted the chit to be able to move. As Bella expected, Draco reacted with a twitch to the sight of the girl in pain. He surreptitiously adjusted his already straining member to temporarily relieve the pressure.

“She’s all yours Draco. Show me what you can do,” Bella whispered in instruction.

Draco attempted to cast a non-verbal Imperio and gave the girl a command. “On your knees.” He was disappointed when she failed to comply immediately, indicating that the curse had not been cast successfully. At his shoulder, Bella observed without comment for a moment, and then whispered something in his ear. He turned his head slightly, looking at her with skepticism evident in his expression. “Really?” he asked.

She smirked and nodded, flashing her eyes toward their victim. “Try again,” she encouraged.

Another flick of his wand, this time adding an extra downward stroke and a sub-vocalization of the curse, and he repeated his command. “On your knees.” This time, she complied immediately. “Huh,” Draco grunted. “Who knew?”

“Good. Now you want to see how long you can hold her under your control. Keep giving her commands until she’s able to resist.”

“Crawl over to me.” She complied without hesitation.

He glanced at his aunt, who’d retreated to a corner of the room and conjured a comfortable chaise in which to rest as she watched his practice. She nodded in encouragement. “Go on.”

Months earlier, he’d have been reluctant to follow this particular path, but endless weeks of attending Dark Revels and torture training under his aunt and uncle’s tutelage – aided unbeknownst to him by the cocktail of potions administered in his favorite truffles - had removed any inhibition that Draco had ever had. With a flick of his wand, he removed the bindings that held the girl’s hands behind her back.

“Clasp your hands in front of you.” Again, she followed his order. He retied her hands so that she had minimal movement, but enough to accomplish his aims.

“Unzip my trousers.” Once more, she did as she was bid.

“Gently now. Reach in and grasp my cock.” She did.

“Free it from my pants.” Again, she complied.

“Stroke it.” Her hands went to work, bringing Draco to full arousal.

“Lick it.” Her tongue emerged from her small pink mouth and flicked at the hard, red organ.

“Suck it, bitch. But if you use your teeth, I’ll kill you now.” She used her bound hands to guide his thick erection into her mouth, and took in as much as she could. When it appeared that she could accommodate no more of him, Draco shifted his hips and rocked forward to force her to take him all the way into her throat. Her lack of skill made no difference to Draco. Her mouth was hot and wet, and he began to thrust aggressively, seeking his release. Her sounds of choking meant nothing to him. It wasn’t long before he felt his sac tighten and the unmistakable final swell of his penis as his orgasm was imminent. He spilled his seed into her mouth with a grunt and one more command. “Swallow it.”

Over his shoulder, Draco heard the rustle of robes and he glanced to see his aunt with her hand rubbing furiously between her legs. He smirked, and gave the girl one more order. “Go lick her cunt until she comes.”

As the girl crawled over to where Bella reclined, Draco slumped as though boneless against the stone altar, lifting himself onto the slab as his strength slowly returned. He reclined on his side, an arm propping up his head, and watched as she lapped at the older woman’s slit, becoming aroused again at the sight. A seventeen year old wizard didn’t take long to recover, apparently. He rolled to his back and spread his long legs and grasped his swelling penis, stroking it with a tight fist. The girl could be there for awhile, he mused. It took quite the effort to get Bella off, he’d observed. Might as well take advantage of the situation, he thought, rising from the stone with unhurried grace.

“Keep licking,” he ordered. “Get up on all fours and open your legs.” He ripped off the tattered cotton robe to gain better access, and removed his own trousers and pants for easier movement. He lined up behind her and thrust deeply into her unprepared vagina. When he met with the thin internal barrier of her hymen, he pushed harder, ripping through it without care.

Draco grasped her hips for leverage and pounded away, eagerly anticipating another orgasm. His penis had been slick with saliva and his own semen, and its path was now lubricated with the girl’s blood. He didn’t care; she wasn’t the first virgin he’d fucked and would without question not be the last woman whose blood would ease his way. He could hear his sac making contact with her vulva and Bella’s moans as his thrusting pushed their captive’s mouth forcefully into her clit. It wouldn’t be long now.

Draco changed his angle of attack by just a fraction, but it was enough to provide more contact and with half a dozen more thrusts, he came with a roar. Bella followed him by only seconds, a growling moan escaping her lips and a satisfied smirk on her face. She looked into her nephew’s eyes and winked. That, for some reason, made Draco shudder.

He pulled out of the bloody, exhausted prisoner, cast a quick Scourgify on his lower body, and put on his trousers, leaving his pants on the dungeon’s floor. He was still craving friction, and the woolen fabric felt deliciously sensual against his still-sensitive penis. His legs were shaking from the intensity of his release, and he sat on the wooden bench, positive that he’d collapse if he didn’t rest immediately.

“Crawl back over here,” he commanded.

When she reached him, he took her hands and removed the binding with his wand. “Put your hands behind your back.”

He fastened her wrists once more, leaving her naked and shivering on her knees. He looked over at his aunt, who was languidly licking her fingers. “Enough?” he asked.

“Well done, Draco,” she acknowledged. “You can remove the curse now.”

With a silent “Finite” he lifted the Imperius he’d cast some thirty minutes earlier.

“I think you’re ready,” Bella pronounced as the prisoner collapsed, sobbing, onto the cold stone floor. They left her there, and exited the room to continue their discussion elsewhere.

“Here’s what I think you should do…”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The plan they’d concocted was relatively simple, but needed to be executed with minute precision. If Draco was to capture and kill his quarry, everything would have to go right, including the reactions they had anticipated would come from Dumbledore and his spy. Draco had been both skilled and lucky.

It had only taken him one day to locate the wrinkled hag who had first clued him in to Dumbledore’s impassioned pleas for assistance from the general populace of the Wizarding World. From under his highly efficient Disillusionment charm, it had been a simple matter to silently cast the Imperio that had the poor woman singing a bawdy limerick at the top of her lungs for a moment. She earned a good handful of disgusted glares from passers-by for her apparently unprovoked outburst. Draco had fought mightily for control of his laughter over that silly prank, perhaps most reflective of the vestiges of the teenage boy that still lived buried deep within his heart. He justified it by telling himself that he had to test the obedience curse’s effectiveness. The implanted command had only taken two more minutes of their time, and the old witch was upon her merry way, none the wiser that she’d be betraying the old man and his helpers before the sun set.

She had dutifully passed along the message that important – no, vital – information was being offered for sale, but only under a set of stringent conditions. She’d described the parameters of the deal to perfection; it could have been done no other way under the curse with which she’d been afflicted. The stipulations had been designed to ensure that no other person could fulfill them but the elusive Severus Snape. And the “good faith” tidbit to further entice him out of hiding had been tantalizing enough that the prospect of ignoring it was nearly painful. “Good faith,” indeed. How ironic, Draco thought. The instructions she’d passed along had no room for negotiation. The “contact” would be at the designated spot at the designated time via the provided Portkey, or the consequences would be dire indeed. The likelihood that this was all a set-up was enormously high, but the risks of flouting this opportunity were higher. The contact would be there.

When the Portkey – a miniature cast iron cauldron - activated in Severus Snape’s hands at a quarter till two that Thursday morning, he’d been disarmed and stripped of his clothing before his feet had even settled on the cold stone floor. Draco had cast a Silencio quickly followed by a Stupefy to ensure that neither spoken nor nonverbal spells could be cast by the fly in this spider’s web. He had further guaranteed the former Professor’s immobilization by binding his hands and feet. Some might have called his actions cowardly; his compatriots, especially those who had previously been on the business end of the Potions Master’s dueling wand, would call him appropriately cautious and prudent. To his credit, Draco did not endlessly taunt his former Housemaster, nor did he give a villain’s laundry list of explanations for his actions and the ruse that had captured the wizard now at his mercy. He simply raised his wand, told the man that he’d once admired and respected that his time on the run was at an end, and cast Avada Kedavra with as much venom as necessary to ensure that the dark-haired former Slytherin breathed no more. Draco’s swift and aching erection required but one caress through the fabric of his trousers to produce an orgasm of such powerful intensity that he’d not soon forget it.

Severus Snape’s naked and bound body was discovered that evening, abandoned like so much rubbish in a dirty alley not far from Borgin and Burkes. The word “Traitor” had been burned into his pale chest.

While his murder caused palpable grief among the members of Dumbledore’s Army, it also steeled their resolve to bring down the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. This horrid violence could not continue.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hermione Granger was roused from her reverie by the sound of Albus Dumbledore’s laughter. It sounded so foreign, so unexpected after long months without its rich tremble. What could possibly coax the joyous noise from this man after so much time spent in mournful silence? She turned her attention back to the group that had continued their discussion while she was lost in thought to find that each and every member was sporting a broad grin. Just what had she missed?


	20. Unraveling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con sexual activity in this chapter.

Draco stretched out on the sofa and leaned his head against the pillow that he’d propped against the armrest. He and Hermione had talked for a few more minutes about who might have knowledge of their current predicament and his on-going memory issues, until she had begged exhaustion and curled into the bed for a kip. He’d been glad to allow her the time to rest because he needed the space to come to grips with the startling and confusing revelations they’d discussed.

She’d been terribly quiet after he confessed to killing Professor Snape, almost as though she was reliving a painful memory. He guessed that it was probable that Snape had continued to be in contact with Dumbledore and his loyal army. He had a vague recollection about intercepting messages or some such thing, and luring the former Death Eater into a trap. He didn’t really recall the circumstances, just that he’d killed the man in cold blood after stripping him of all of his defenses. Granger probably remembered more about it than he did, and that was likely why she’d become silent and upset. Maybe she’d even liked the batty git. One more thing for him to feel terrible about, he thought.

He couldn’t bear the idea of thinking any more. This afternoon had been utterly draining, both emotionally and physically. The last two days had felt longer than his entire life to this point, and they’d only begun to scratch the surface of what was really going on. His own… affliction was still largely a mystery, and what he’d really been up to for the last five years was nothing more than a blur of disconnected fragments and unknown faces. It was all too much to process. Maybe Granger had the right idea. A little rest couldn’t hurt; everything would look better when he woke up again. Draco pulled up the blankets that Granger had discarded and settled deeper into the sofa’s worn cushions. He allowed his eyes to drift shut and sleep to claim him.

_He was running, chasing someone. Several people, actually. There were two other men sprinting with him and wand-fire was flying freely around them. Purple, red, green. Always green. Their targets were a group Mudbloods who’d been detected casting magic. The new tracking spells that the Dark Lord had devised always gave away their position. Easy pickings, whenever someone who was not a pureblood wielded a wand. Ingenious._

_It didn’t take long to catch up to them. The brush had been thick and full of brambles, and they’d been chased out of their hiding place without shoes or cloaks to protect them from the icy cold. They were no match for the better equipped and prepared aggressors. The Stunning spells had hit their marks, and three males were felled quickly by the Avada Kedavras that the pursuing Death Eaters cast. There was one woman in the group, and she wouldn’t be so lucky. They’d not bothered to bury the dead men. The wild animals and the elements would deal with what they’d left behind. The female would be their source of amusement for the next couple of hours, and then she’d join her… husband, brother, father, friend - Who knew? It really didn’t matter – in permanent sleep._

_“Me first this time, Draco,” the taller of the two dark-haired men had asserted. “By the time you’re done with them, there’s not enough left for any fun.”_

_“Quit your whining. You get plenty of fun, Nott,” Draco had snorted back. “But if you’re so anxious to get at this one, be my guest.” He waved at the bound, silenced, and terrified woman as though his offer was a grand, magnanimous gesture._

_“Don’t mind if I do,” he’d accepted._

_Once they’d dragged her back to the cottage they’d commandeered as their base of operations for the month, Nott had shackled her hands to the top of a platform that he and Dolohov had conjured to facilitate their little games. Nott’s two compatriots each held one of her ankles, all the better to see the action up close and to further intimidate and terrorize the presumptuous bitch. Her clothing had been magically stripped and Nott was anxious to get started. He removed the Silencio spell that he’d cast on her earlier because he loved to hear them scream. There was no one to hear them for miles around, so she could screech at the top of her lungs and it would only amuse her captors._

_For Nott, roughing them up always came first. He used his fists and feet to batter every part of her body. She was bruised and bloody within minutes. Draco felt himself harden as she cried out in pain and as the coppery smell of her blood hit his nostrils. It wasn’t quite as stimulating as inflicting the damage himself, but her pain was glorious to him. He watched with interest as Nott stripped off his trousers and exposed his own erection to his small audience. Without further preamble, Draco and Dolohov took the ankles they held and spread the woman’s legs to the fullest, clearing the path for Nott’s intrusion. Adding insult to injury, he spat on his victim’s slit. The little it would do to ease his entrance was only for his own benefit, to be sure. With a vicious thrust, he breached her opening and heard her shriek as his thickness tore at her delicate flesh. He laughed, pulled out, and thrust violently again. And again. And again. Over and over, until he felt the oncoming rush of his orgasm. He growled deep in his chest and filled the unwilling woman with his semen. On either side of him, Draco and Dolohov were both breathing heavily, each anxious to punish this woman for her crime of using magic while “unworthy.”_

_Draco released her leg to Nott’s grip and stripped off his own trousers, lining up his rock hard penis with her abused vagina. He…_

Draco woke with a start, his dream-erection translating directly to a real one, and his arousal so advanced that a single shift of the rough fabric of his jeans against his penis finished him. He tried to strangle the sound that erupted from his throat as his orgasm overtook him, but it was beyond his ability to control. In his fogged brain, he absently hoped that Granger was still asleep and hadn’t heard what was obviously his sexual release. He was grateful, at least, that it had happened while he dozed on the sofa and not while he was in the bed beside her. That would have been an unmitigated disaster, thankfully avoided. His next thought was for the devastating headache that was rapidly developing behind his eyes. Merlin, it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. He groaned again, but this time in pain and frustration.

The realization that he’d participated in gang rape, and had unequivocally enjoyed both watching and personally inflicting pain as a means to his own sexual release was both horrifying and appalling. Had this happened more than that one time? If what he’d done to Granger was any indication, compounded with what dream-Nott had said about his proclivities, he’d have to conclude that it was a fairly regular occurrence. Why, then, did he not remember those episodes? What, exactly, had he become? His body started to shake and shiver, compounding the stress from his building migraine. There was something very wrong with him, he had no doubt. He wondered if he was having a seizure of some kind, and pain began to grip his joints and muscles before he could finish the thought. He had to stop thinking, or he’d die, he felt certain.

His twisting and moaning had, unfortunately, not gone unnoticed by Hermione Granger. She was still unable to move very much on her own. Her earlier crawl to the bathroom and then to the adjacent bedroom had taken nearly all of her slowly rebuilding strength. The most she could manage right now was a verbal effort, and she called out to her attacker-cum-savior. “Draco! Are you alright?”

He heard her question but was unable to answer it articulately. Something that sounded like “Unngh” escaped from his gritted teeth, and he squeezed his eyes tightly in denial of the tremors that shook his thin frame. All his movement had finally succeeded in dislodging him from his position on the sofa, and he hit the floor with a resounding thud. This caused another yell from Hermione. “Hey! Draco! What’s wrong?”

When he failed to respond, Hermione’s inner Gryffindor felt she had no choice but to try to make it back to the sitting room. She carefully eased herself off the bed onto the floor by way of her knees. She cautiously shifted so that she was balanced on all fours. Moving gingerly and slowly, she inched her way toward the room where Draco still lay moaning in agony. Grateful that the house was tiny, Hermione believed that it would only take another minute or two before she could see what was happening to the man who was making such pitiable noises. Rounding the corner brought a sight for which she was unprepared.

Draco was shaking violently on the floor. It appeared that every muscle in his body was seizing up and contracting in spasms. He was sweating profusely and his complexion was mottled with red blotches splashed everywhere that skin was visible. It was a frightening scene, made more daunting by Hermione’s understanding that she had little strength and few resources with which to help him, even if she knew what the source of the problem was. A thought tickled at the back of her brain, and she tugged it forward to recall that his affliction looked very much like drug withdrawal symptoms. Her decidedly limited medical knowledge included the awareness that this was probably something that he’d just have to “ride out.” The thought wasn’t a pleasant prospect. It did, however, almost certainly confirm the suspicion they’d discussed earlier that he’d been under the influence of some kind of potion. She almost felt sorry for him, and wondered who would have done something so cruel to another human being. It had “dark magic” written all over it; when - if - he recovered sufficiently, she’d revisit that topic again.

Draco seemed unaware of her presence only a couple of feet from him, and rolled onto his side, groaning again through his fog of pain. When she whispered his name, it did not reach his consciousness. When she reached out to touch his arm, it only added to his agitation. His arms flailed and his back arched off the floor against a perceived assault, and she flinched away, putting a little more space between them. It would not be prudent to allow herself to be injured further. As screwed-up as they both were, neither could even qualify as “walking wounded” right now. She resolved to watch and wait for a moment, hoping that he’d calm soon.

The seconds seemed to stretch to hours, but it was really less than two minutes later that Draco’s thrashing began to abate. His breathing appeared less labored, and visible musculature looked less taut and corded. He seemed to become more aware of his surroundings, and emitted a more deliberate and communicative moan. He brought his arms up over his eyes, blocking out the light with his forearms, and drew up his knees so that his feet rested flat on the floor. Since his movements indicated conscious awareness, Hermione tried to get his attention once more.

“You scared me, Draco. Are you alright?” she asked, her voice purposefully quiet and soothing.

Through the screen of his arms over his face, he croaked out his answer, “Mmm, I guess.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Will you tell me? Maybe I can help somehow,” she offered.

“Unh uh.”

“No, you won’t tell me, or no, I can’t help?”

“Both,” he answered shortly, still hiding his face.

Hermione Granger, however, never gave up. “Why not?”

“Humiliating.”

“So?”

“Degrading.”

“So?”

“No, Granger. Not gonna happen,” he insisted.

“Draco, after everything that’s happened between us in the last two days, there’s not a thing that you could tell me that would shock or embarrass me,” she proposed.

“Not worried about your embarrassment this time, Granger.”

“Draco, whatever happened may give us some insight into your problem,” she pushed.

Reluctantly and with a great, deep sigh, Draco used his arms to lever himself up to a sitting position, his back resting against the front of the sofa. “You’re never going to leave it, are you?” he confirmed, daring to make brief eye contact with the exasperating witch. “Persistence, thy name is Hermione Granger.”

She greeted him with a broad smile, which although not really apropos to the situation, was all the confirmation he’d ever need of her character and intent. She was clearly as evil as he’d ever been. “You’re learning, Malfoy. That’s good,” she needled. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” she encouraged.

He snorted and mumbled something that sounded like “You asked for it…”

“I had an orgasm.”

“Oh, uh, oh,” she stuttered, a bright pink blush staining her neck and cheeks. “That’s, uh…”

“Too much information?” he offered.

“Well, uh, maybe. More like, _so_ not what I expected you to say. Why do you think it’s important? Um, other than the obvious?”

“And pray tell, Miss Granger, what would be the ‘obvious importance’ of my orgasm?” In for a penny, in for a pound, he figured.

She worked her mouth open and closed several times, having no rational answer to his question before finally settling upon throwing it back into his proverbial lap. “Well, how should I know? It wasn’t mine!”

At that, he had no choice but to laugh, despite the pain still coursing through nearly every inch of his body. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that, at least.”

She just glared at him, not amused in the slightest.

“The obvious importance, Granger, can be found in _why_ I had an orgasm,” he instructed. “And the answer is not that I was wanking off. I haven’t had the desire to do that since we got here, and if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have done it in the middle of an open sitting room.”

“Okay. Then why did you have an orgasm, Draco?” she capitulated, mumbling the next under her breath, but it was loud enough for him to hear. “Now that’s a question that I can guarantee I never imagined would ever come out of my mouth.”

“And if anyone had ever told me that you and I would be sitting around discussing my orgasms, I’d have used the Avada on them for being bat-shit crazy.”

“Fair enough, but let’s get back to the subject at hand, um, whatever. Go on, please.” She waved at him.

Desperately resisting the urge to smirk, he continued his explanation. “I fell asleep on the sofa and I had a dream…”

Before he could expand, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, is that all? Well, that’s entirely normal, Draco, though not as common once a boy is out of his teens, and…”

“Granger! If you’d let me finish, please? I had a dream about a raid, followed by a chase and the capture of a prisoner. A woman. We brought her back to our camp and, uh, did things to her. Vile things. And it aroused me.”

“Oh, well, again, you can’t really control what arouses you in your dreams…”

“No! What, Granger, are you an expert on Wizard sexuality now? You wanted to know, so please just listen and let me get through this.”

“Sorry. Go on,” she apologized, appropriately chastised for her untimely interruption.

He took another deep breath and began once more. “It wasn’t the sex that aroused me, it was the pain. We were hurting her, and I got off on it. I think I’ve become a sadist. But the other half of the problem is that I realized that it wasn’t a dream, but a memory.”

Hermione gasped involuntarily, causing Draco to wince in humiliation. “Well, that explains a lot, but it gives us more questions too,” she replied.

“What does it explain?” he wondered. His head was pounding too much to allow for much deduction and reasoning. He’d have to rely on her substantial brain to work for both of them for a while.

“It explains part of why you were writhing in pain on the floor earlier, because your brain called up a memory, so you probably still have some residual of the potion in your system. But I think you were also suffering from withdrawal symptoms. In the Muggle world, when someone suddenly stops taking a drug they’ve been addicted to, like alcohol, cocaine, or heroin, they get what’s called the DTs. It stands for delirium tremens, and the addict gets chills, shivers, sweating, muscle spasms – the whole works. It was exactly what you were doing when I crawled in here.”

“Huh. Interesting. Anything else?”

“It explains what you did to me,” she said, trying deliberately not to sound accusatory.

Draco dropped his face to his hands in shame. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s not why I said it, Draco.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I know you are. Let’s try to be dispassionate about this, and just look at facts and possibilities. I’m more convinced than ever that a preponderance of the atrocities you’ve committed were not of your own volition.”

“English, please, Granger. My brain hurts.” Draco massaged his throbbing temples deeply, keeping his eyes closed against the brightness in the room.

“Someone has been controlling nearly everything you do, and for a very long time. Do you have any idea when you might have started feeling, um, sexual gratification that way?”

“It’s been a long time. Probably around the time I took the Dark Mark. But I was sexually active before that, and never got off on hurting anyone. Give me a pretty witch with big tits, and I was a happy bloke. Yeah, I’d say that the control would have started after that. I can’t recall doing any of those things.”

“It seems to me that it’s undoubtedly dark magic, so that means it is most likely another Death Eater and probably someone in Voldemort’s senior ranks, because there’s likely some strategy to using someone the way they’ve used you. And whatever potion they’ve administered, you haven’t had any of it for a couple of days, so that’s why you’re getting the DTs. I hate to tell you this, but it will probably get worse before it gets better.”

“You’re just full of good news, aren’t you, Granger?”

“I’d also lay Galleons on the fact that whoever did this to you added a powerful addictive agent, so that you’d crave whatever it was that they dosed.”

“What did you say?” His voice was low and dangerous.

“I said that you would crave lots of whatever it was that had the potion in it.”

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just trying to process this in my head. Crave, huh?”

“Does something come to mind? Something you just have to have?”

“Yeah. Chocolate truffles,” he offered with a snort.

Hermione laughed. “Me, too.”

“No, Granger, seriously. I love chocolate. It’s my single greatest weakness.”

“Okay, so we may be getting somewhere. How often do you eat chocolate?”

“Every day, twice a day, if I can. Honestly. I really love chocolate. Always have.”

“Is there a particular type of chocolate that you eat more often than others?”

“Mmmhmm. Like I said before, chocolate truffles. The ones with the macadamia nuts in them. Sooo good, Granger. I bet you’d love them too,” he enthused, sounding much younger and more innocent than a twenty-one year old man normally would.

“Do you remember when you first started eating them?”

“Wow. That’s a long time ago. Maybe fifth year.”

“Which was about when you started being a bigger git than usual.”

“Yes, that may be true. But I’m pretty certain we can rule that out. Those truffles were something that my mother sent to me personally, and I’ve always had them at the Manor, so I think those are probably not the source.”

“Hmm. You’re probably right. There’s no way your mother would do that to you.”

“Of course not. She’s the one good thing in my life. At least she was.”

“Draco, if she’s not really dead, and I’m nearly positive that she isn’t, she can be there for you again.”

He shook his head sadly. “No, Granger, that’s not even the point. She’ll never be able to forgive me for the monster I’ve become. I don’t deserve to have someone care about me.”

“Draco, there’s no denying that you’ve done some horrific things, and you’ll have to figure out how to live with that. But if you’ve been doing these things under something that equates to an Imperius, it’s not really you who’s to blame. The Wizengamot wouldn’t even send you to Azkaban under those circumstances.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t take the legal blame, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to live with what I’ve done, Granger,” he whispered.

The look on Hermione’s face could only be described as compassion, and he hated that almost as much as the fear he’d seen there the day before. “Don’t do that,” he warned her.

“Don’t do what?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Don’t go all Hufflepuff on me. I don’t want your pity.”

“Who said I pity you?” she challenged.

“It’s written all over your face,” Draco accused.

“And you know me well enough to know what my facial expressions mean, Malfoy?”

“Uh.”

“Yeah, ‘uh.’ Don’t you go making assumptions.”

“Well, that’s kind of a universal expression. Most people know it when they see it,” he argued.

“I don’t pity you. I care that any human being has been subjected to the psychological torture that you’ve had to endure. It’s not fair, and that’s all I’m saying.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and bored into hers menacingly. “I fucked you to within an inch of your life barely two days ago, Granger. How stupid would you have to be to care about anything that ever happened to me? Hate me! Wish me dead! I can’t _handle_ it if you care about anything even remotely connected to me!”

Hermione met his eyes without fear or rancor, and spoke calmly to the agitated man. “That’s the thing, Draco. You didn’t do that to me, not really. I don’t blame you for what you did; I blame whoever has been drugging you for so many years. That person, I hate. That person, I wish dead. You, I wish cleansed of whatever has infected you for so long.”

She wisely ignored the water that welled up in the young man’s eyes, threatening to spill over his pale cheeks, and simply shifted her position to lean against the chair while he dropped his head between his upraised knees in an effort to compose himself.

“Don’t worry, Draco. None of that means I _like_ you. I still think you’re an insufferable git, if that makes you feel any better.”

The sniff she received in reply was close enough to a snort that both of them let the moment pass without further comment.

Both sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes until Hermione spoke up. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“If it has anything to do with an orgasm, the answer is ‘no.’ Otherwise, I’m open. What?”

“Cheeky git. I’m really uncomfortable here on the floor, and I’ve just about exhausted every last reserve of strength I had left. Would you mind helping up to the sofa, or back to the bed?”

“I think I can do that. Which do you prefer?”

“Um, sofa I think. It’s warmer in here than in the bedroom. Plus it’s not as far for you to move me.”

Draco rolled to his knees and pulled himself into a standing position with a fair degree of effort. His pain had moderated, but he was still very sore and shaky. “Yeah, don’t know if I’d have the strength to move you all of fifteen feet farther,” he scoffed.

When she quirked an eyebrow at him, he retracted his scorn. “Sorry. It’s just easier to be sarcastic than real, sometimes. Self-protection, you know.”

“I do. More than you might think. I’ve been known to employ that tactic myself.”

Draco bent to lift her, and was a little surprised when her arms folded so readily around his neck. It did make the process easier, but her subconscious – he thought – display of trust was unsettling. He chose not to comment, though, and hooked his arm under her knees to complete the procedure. He turned, placed her on the sofa that he’d so recently occupied, and flushed when he remembered what had happened there not even an hour earlier. Thank Merlin for the heavy fabric of denim.

“I’ll just leave you to rest for a bit. I need to …” With a nod of his head, he indicated that a visit to the loo was his destination.

She’d seen his high color, but she just nodded in acknowledgement, and watched him leave the room. She’d been circumspect enough to resist commenting on his …problem that needed tending. Now that he was gone, she couldn’t help but blush furiously again at the conversation they’d had and brought her hands to her cheeks as she felt the heat rise in them. She mused disconcertedly that she probably had had more conversation with Draco Malfoy about sexuality than just about any other man with whom she’d ever been acquainted, including Ron, who’d been her boyfriend for a mercifully short time. The shudder that tore through her when recalling those decidedly odd four months had nothing to do with the slight chill in the room. She’d not had a steady beau since they broke up more than three years ago. Then again, who has much time for relationships in the midst of fighting a war? In any case, it was a very odd and uncomfortable thing to talk about with someone she barely knew, regardless of how pertinent it might be to solving their many individual and mutual problems.

In the bathroom, Draco lamented once more that his wand had not made the Portkey trip with them. A Scourgify would be so welcome right about now. The inside of the jeans was damp and sticky, but he had nothing else to wear. He stripped them off for the moment and decided to tend first to his body. He did not relish the idea of another frigid shower. A quick wash-up would have to do, for now. He found one of the towels that he’d used earlier as a cold compress for Granger’s injuries and unfurled it. Taking the corner that had been protected inside the roll, he dampened it with cold water from the tap and cleaned himself as best he could. As the rough fabric grazed his still-sensitive organ, he winced from both the ache and the remembered shame of actually telling Granger what had happened. Well, at least he was somewhat cleaner. He took the same towel and wiped the inside of the denim fabric, leaving it still damp but less sticky. He’d have no alternative but to deal with the discomfort, and he stepped back into the jeans, pulling them up over his hips and zipping them. He rinsed the towel out and hung it over the top of the shower stall to dry. If they were here for much longer, he’d need a towel for himself anyway. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and strode confidently back into the sitting room.

He was grateful that Granger made no comment or observation upon his return, and he sat in the armchair near the hearth, stretching out his legs in an attempt to relieve the muscle cramps he was still suffering. The sun was going down and the room had started to darken and cool. He’d have to add more wood to the fire and they’d have to discuss sleeping arrangements for the night. No time like the present, he thought.

“Granger, it’s probably going to be really cold again tonight. We should talk about what we’re going to do to keep warm.”

“Oh! I’m glad you mentioned that. I was thinking earlier that we might try to get the furnace started again. There may be something little that we missed in the last attempt.”

“I’m game. But what could that be? You seemed to know a decent amount about it, and your directions were quite thorough, I thought.”

“Yes, but there’s always the potential that I missed something.”

“Fine. Walk me through it again, then.”

“Alright. First, you said that the big tank downstairs showed a gauge marked three-quarters full, correct?”

“Yes, and I traced the pipes from that tank over to the furnace machine, so fuel shouldn’t be the issue.”

Her lips twitched slightly at his phraseology of “furnace machine” but she refrained from commenting. “And you found the thermostat to set the temperature and turned it to the number 22?”

He rose to show her where he found the dial and confirmed that it was turned to the correct setting.

Eyes flashing with a sudden thought, she asked, “Is there a little switch on the bottom of the thermostat?”

“You mean like the ones for the lights?”

“Sort of. This one would be much smaller, and would slide from side to side instead of up and down.”

He peered closely at the dial and found the tiny switch she’d described. “Yeah, there is one here on the bottom.”

“Can you see any words labeled there?”

“Yes. It says ‘Off’ and ‘Heat’ side by side.”

“Which one is the switch lined up to?”

“Off,” he replied, looking at her hopefully.

“Bingo!” she cried. “Slide it to the Heat setting and cross your fingers.”

He did as she instructed and went to open the basement door, listening for the sound of machinery starting up.

“Hear anything?”

“Unh uh. Nothing yet.”

Looking crestfallen, she pouted. “It would have been pretty much instantaneous.”

“Give it a second. Maybe it just needs to warm itself up.”

“Ooh, I just thought of something else. This room has warmed up because of the fire, so the thermostat might not be set high enough to get the furnace to kick on. Move the dial up to 25 and see what happens.”

“Whatever you say. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Granger.” He did as she asked again.

“Hear anything now?”

He stuck his head back into the basement doorway for a moment, and reemerged shaking his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

“Shit.”

“Granger! Language, please,” he teased.

“I can’t think of anything else,” she bemoaned.

“Well, maybe something else will come to you later,” he offered.

“Maybe,” she acknowledged, not sounding terribly optimistic.

“I guess that means we still need to figure out a way to stay warm tonight.”

“Yes, but I’m not anxious to get back into that bed with you, Malfoy, regardless of how well-behaved you may have been last night.”

“We have some time before then anyway. It can’t be more than about four, five at the very latest. I’m certainly not ready for bed yet.”

“Me, either. I mean, we both had kips this afternoon besides…” her voice trailed off as she recalled how and why he’d awakened.

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. Forget it.”

“What do you want to do for now, then?” she prompted.

“Maybe we should explore a little more on the idea of this place as a safe-house.”

“Sure. Do you have anything in particular in mind?”

“Nothing terribly concrete, but let’s go with your assertion that my mother is still alive and had something to do with us getting here. This is a Muggle house, correct?”

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“How would my mother know anything about a Muggle house? Does she even know any Muggles?”

“Well, I can’t pretend to have any idea who she does or doesn’t know, but there are a couple of obvious possibilities.”

“Like?”

“Well, Andy married a Muggle-born wizard.”

“Yes, but he is a wizard, even if he is Muggle-born. And you said you’d been to their house. This obviously isn’t it.”

“True, but it illustrates how it’s possible for your mother to know Muggle-related people.”

“Let’s think about this from another angle, since neither of us has any further idea who she might or might not know. Somebody – right this very minute – knows that we are here. Why haven ‘t we heard from them?”

“There are any number of possibilities, Draco. If your mother made the Portkey, then she does know where we are. If not, we have to consider whether she does or doesn’t know who did create it. If she doesn’t know, then we should have no expectation that anyone knows we’re here. If she does know who made it, the chances are fifty-fifty that someone knows how to find us, depending on whether that person told her where we were transported.”

“That’s all very convoluted, Granger, but I think what you’re trying to say is that the only way we can be completely sure someone knows we’re here is if the person who activated the Portkey is also the person who made it in the first place.”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that?”

“I did!”

“Yeah, in at least triple the number of words.”

“Pthhffft”

Draco laughed aloud at Hermione’s raspberry. “Little Miss Maturity, aren’t we?”

“I was just trying to be thorough,” she protested, crossing her arms over her chest in annoyance.

“You really haven’t changed at all since Hogwarts, Granger,” he observed, shaking his head in vague amusement.

“There is one other thing to consider, Draco, if you’re done mocking me.”

“I’m done for now. What’s that?”

“If this is truly a safe-house, it’s probably unplottable and may even be under a Fidelius charm. Then, only the Secret Keeper and whomever they have told can have any possibility of locating us.”

“No. It can’t be under a Fidelius.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can see it when we leave the house.”

“No. That’s not necessarily true.”

“Are you going to argue with me, a pureblood wizard who’s lived and breathed magic his entire life, on this? Seriously?”

“Yes. Because there is a way to modify the Fidelius charm, and I know this because I designed the modification with Headmaster Dumbledore last summer.”

“No shit.”

“No shit. I’m not called the ‘brightest witch of my age’ for nothing, Draco.”

“So how can you change the way a Fidelius works? I’m dying to know.” He was clearly still skeptical, and defensively crossed his arms over his chest.

“You specify the property lines instead of the address when you cast, or re-cast, the charm. The only tricky part is if the spell is being re-cast, it requires that you completely take down all of the wards for a short while. That can be dangerous.”

“So you’re telling me that someone, since last summer, used your modification of the Fidelius charm to update this specific property so that if we went outside, we could still see it, even if we hadn’t been informed by the Secret Keeper. Sounds far-fetched to me.”

“Well, I admit it’s not the most likely scenario, but it is possible. Yes.”

He snorted.

“If your mother was in contact with Andy, as I know she was, then there was a strong possibility that she could have made contact with someone else in the Order. Maybe even Dumbledore himself. Don’t forget, we don’t know why she’s been faking her death. Maybe she’s been helping the Order during that time.”

“Well, I must say that I hadn’t really considered that angle of her being in contact with her sister. That would put a very different spin on things, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“But one other thing has been bugging me, Granger.”

“What’s that?”

“How did you not know my mother was supposedly dead? Wouldn’t that have been big news in the Wizarding world?”

“And just how would that have been published?”

“Uh, the Prophet?”

“Where have you been, Draco? The Prophet hasn’t been published in nearly three years. The offices were destroyed and more than half of their reporters were killed after they wrote a story that was slightly critical of raids that had flattened numerous businesses in Diagon Alley. They’ve never reopened.”

“Are you telling me that there’s no regular news source in the wizarding world, and hasn’t been for all that time?”

“Fundamentally, yes. There are a couple of small, underground news sheets, but they’re not published with any regularity, and they certainly wouldn’t have mentioned a witch’s death, even someone as prominent as your mother, particularly if her death wasn’t the result of a violent act.”

“I don’t know how she died,” he confessed quietly.

“Supposedly died,” she corrected. “You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Never saw the point in asking. There was nothing I could do about it, so I didn’t want to dwell on how it happened.”

“I guess I can understand that. But, Draco, I have a question for you. How could you not know that there was no regular news being published?”

“I would say that I was otherwise occupied, Granger. The tiny pieces that I’m putting together would seem to indicate that I lived from raid to raid, waiting for orders as they came. I don’t recall caring much about news in a general sense.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, our mutual ignorance of news aside, we still both think that someone knows we’re here, and we still don’t have any clues as to why they’ve not come to retrieve us.”

“The most likely explanation for that is that they’ve been otherwise occupied, to borrow your phrase.”

“What could keep someone busy for two whole days when they know that a violent rapist and his victim are alone together somewhere out in the woods, Granger?”

“Good question, Malfoy.”


	21. Breakthrough?

_**Two Years and Eleven Months Ago** _

Hermione Granger lay unconscious, as was not unexpected of someone who’d so recently suffered a very near brush with death. Her room at St. Mungo’s was under constant guard by at least one member of the Order. They’d not captured the wizard who’d made such a vicious attempt on her life, and had few clues to his identity. The attack had been so brutal, and so personal, that they feared her assailant might return to finish the job.

It had already been four days, and hope was waning for a speedy recovery. The curse that had been hurled at her was not an ordinary spell. It defied her Healers’ efforts to identify exactly what was causing her to bleed so profusely from the mark that had been slashed into her skin. It was now apparent that the cure was not among the standard repertoire of the Healers at the Wizarding world’s best known hospital. Harry, Professor Dumbledore, Susan Bones, and Poppy Pomfrey had been and were now searching the vast records left behind by the late Severus Snape for any clue as to what dark magic a Death Eater might have employed, and how to repair the damage that was causing Hermione to bleed out nearly as fast as they could replenish her life’s essential fluid. They were racing against the clock, and it ticked on relentlessly.

Hermione rarely left the confines of Hogwarts; her role was as a researcher and strategist. She wouldn’t have even been in Hogsmeade that day if it weren’t for the incredibly promising lead they’d had on the sixth Horcrux. She’d insisted that her study had made her the logical choice to pursue the possibility. That the clue had turned out to be a total bust made her current situation that much more trying. It was on the way back from the failed mission that she’d been attacked. The Order was still trying to determine whether it had been an ambush or just an opportunistic assault. They were convinced, however, that she’d been saved from certain death by the timely patrol of two Aurors who had apparently narrowly missed capturing the mysterious would-be killer.

While she waited in the deepest sleep for a cure or counter-curse to be located, Hermione’s assailant was bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t been quick enough with his Avada before he’d been interrupted by the two morons from the Ministry. Their dumb luck had made it likely he’d pay a hefty price for failure, and that made Draco Malfoy angry. He’d need to keep a low profile for a while, never an easy thing when one’s family was so prominent in Dark circles.

The attack on the Mudblood hadn’t been planned. While she was still on his Voldemort-assigned “To Kill” list, it had been purely serendipity that had placed them on the same street at the same time. That had meant no planning, little subtlety, and less success. He’d seen her from two hundred feet away, and watched for a few moments to determine where she might be headed. Her path had brought her to within just four or five feet of the darkened alleyway that had been his reconnaissance spot for the day. Although nearly half of his time was spent in gathering intelligence, Malfoy had some flexibility in his orders. If he saw a worthy target, he was free to unleash the attack he felt was warranted. His exceptional skill in Disillusionment had meant that she’d not seen or felt his presence until he’d actually cast his first spell – a Petrificus Totalus that made her drop like a stone in the dim passage. Draco had then made the first of two mistakes. He audaciously revealed his identity to her as a deliberate taunt. He wanted her to know who had slashed the “M” for Mudblood into her abdomen, adding a particularly nasty anti-coagulation twist to a fairly standard cutting hex. Second, he hesitated just a moment too long, admiring his handiwork, and was chased away before he could cast the Killing Curse. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he’d chided himself for long minutes after Apparating away from the scene.

The reaction Draco had from his Aunt Bella after his failed attempt on the Mudblood’s life had not been what he expected. Errors often earned him a Crucio or two, and meant that he’d spend a day or more nursing aching muscles and raw nerves. This time, she’d been … consoling and supportive, in her own inimitable manic and twisted way. She’d applauded him for his effort and told him there would be other opportunities. And she’d given him a prisoner on whom he could take out his frustrations and anger. The series of Crucios and Imperios emitted from his wand had been most satisfying. Draco appreciated that his aunt always seemed to give him female captives. He’d worn himself out fucking that one into the floor. After a hot shower and a handful of truffles, he’d slept like a baby that night.

Now, he was waiting to hear whether his attack had yielded a delayed success. No word had come from St. Mungo’s on the Mudblood’s condition, and a Floo call for information had only confirmed that she was listed as a patient. Some new rule had apparently been instituted that prevented medical status information to be revealed to anyone not specifically designated as authorized by the patient or their next of kin. He most certainly would not be on that list. He’d have to find another source if he wanted to know whether she might still succumb to her injuries.

It had taken two more days, but Poppy Pomfrey had finally located some notes that Severus had left for her that seemed promising. It seemed that someone in the Death Eater ranks had developed a spell called “Haemophilius” - related to a Muggle disease that meant its victims’ blood would continuously flow without clotting. She wasted no further time on getting the information to Hermione’s Healers, who administered the appropriate counter-measures in all due haste. It was still a near thing, but their efforts were rewarded when she opened her eyes one day after the first of the treatments had been applied. It would take another two weeks of consistent healing before she’d be ready to rejoin her cohorts at Hogwarts, and another ten days beyond that until she was well enough to resume her research duties. While it wasn’t among her top priorities, she’d been grateful that Poppy had shared a spell that would dramatically diminish the terrible scarring on her abdomen. There would always be a faint reminder, but it would take close inspection for anyone to see the demeaning mark that had been carved into her body by a former schoolmate.

Hermione had identified her attacker as Draco Malfoy, a known Death Eater. He was already wanted for numerous crimes, but had proved to be cagey and elusive. The ineffectual Ministry had done nothing, however, to intensify their search for the known killer and torturer. After all, he was but one of many.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa Malfoy sat quietly in her study, reading a stack of correspondence that had arrived over the last several days. It was draining and vaguely depressing to read the numerous messages from well-wishers, offering advice and expressing dismay at her bout with “female illness.” She couldn’t read these notes every day; it was just too much. So once a week, she planned a block of two hours during which she’d review and respond only to those whom social obligations made it necessary. The rest received a pre-engraved card of acknowledgment and thanks, which reinforced the impression that she was just too sick to handle her own correspondence. She’d never considered how difficult it would be to maintain the illusion of poor health for so long. That it would take such a toll on her emotional well-being was something she hadn’t contemplated.

A light rap on the door alerted her to her husband’s imminent entry, and she set aside a particularly sad note that described a mutual acquaintance’s own difficulties and extreme measures to find a cure. It made her feel horribly guilty when her own malaise was not real. “Lucius, dear, what brings you home in the middle of the day?”

“Can’t a husband dote on his lovely wife? I thought we might take a picnic on the grounds for lunch. It’s such a beautiful day, and dry July weather is a rare treat.”

A serene smile graced Narcissa’s lovely face, and she rose to accept her husband’s embrace. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, darling. I’ll go to the kitchens and prepare something for us.”

“Don’t be silly, love. Let the house-elves do it. We can spend the time in more enjoyable ways,” he teased, a twinkle in his eye accompanying the suggestive move of his hips against hers.

She giggled girlishly, but pushed against his chest lightly to put a little distance between them. “Later, dear. I would really like to put together something special. The house-elves will do the bulk of the work, but I’d like to make the menu.”

At his moue of disappointment, she rose on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “You seem to forget sometimes that I’m supposed to be ill. We need to be careful about appearances.”

“And you, my love, need to remember that you are _not_ ailing, and that the privacy of our bedroom is sacrosanct. In any case, I can always just tell anyone who asks that you just ‘took to bed’ for the afternoon and no one would think twice of it,” he retorted.

“You do have a point there, Lucius,” she agreed with a bright grin. “Let me put our picnic together. We’ll enjoy it in the orchard, and then we’ll come back in for… a little nap.”

“I think that sounds like a delightful afternoon,” he agreed. “I’ll just take a few moments to check my owl post and I’ll meet you outside in half an hour.”

“Perfect,” she stated, and shooed him away so that she could accomplish her mission in the kitchen. The depressing post could wait till later.

Narcissa’s visit to the kitchen was not rare, but nor was it an everyday occurrence. The three house-elves who had primary responsibility for meal preparation and household cleaning were always at the ready to receive her orders. “Master Lucius and I will take our lunch in the orchard today, Tuppy. Please prepare a Chicken Veronique salad, and a wedge of aged cheddar with a French baguette.”

“Yes, Missus. Tuppy gets its right away.”

“And what do we have for dessert? Is there some chocolate mousse cake left from last night?”

“No, Missus. Master sneaked another piece at midnights,” the little house-elf shared with an impish grin. “But we hases some nice truffleses in the cupboards!”

The most astonishing thing that Narcissa had ever seen happened in the next split second. Mitsy, one of their newer acquisitions who had only been with the family for about three or four years, leaped up and screeched loudly. “No, Missus! Thoses are only for Master Draco! Nobody elses can eats thoses!” She then actually barricaded the cupboard with her tiny body.

If Narcissa hadn’t been so shocked, she’d have laughed out loud, the scene was so absurd. “Is that so? Only Master Draco eats those truffles?” she asked with amusement.

“Yes, Missus. They is his mostest favorites,” she nodded vehemently.

“Well, we shouldn’t eat Master Draco most favorites, then,” she agreed with mock solemnity. “What would you recommend for our dessert then?”

If she was surprised at the house-elf’s obvious sigh of relief, she didn’t let it show. Narcissa waited for Mitsy’s reply.

“Mitsy thinkses Master and Missus should eats the lemons tarts with whippy cream. They is mostest excellent,” she enthused, her ears flapping happily as her head bobbed up and down.

“That sounds lovely. Just pack everything up in a wicker basket along with a nice bottle of Chenin Blanc, and bring it out to the small clearing at the middle of the orchard with a large quilt,” she instructed, and left to change into a lighter set of robes. It was quite warm in the noon-day sun, and though there would be substantial shade from the fragrant plantings, it would not be lady-like to perspire in clothing that was too heavy.

Fifteen minutes later, she made her way out to the vast grove of apple trees and used her wand to stretch out the quilt on the ground. Lucius arrived just a few moments later, having discarded his own formal robes in favor of a crisp white cotton shirt and grey linen trousers, his long silver-blond hair tied back in a thin black leather thong.

“Darling! Don’t you look cool and comfortable,” she observed.

“And you are just ravishing in that lovely blue dress, my dear. I tire so of seeing you in pale yellows and greens. They do nothing for your beautiful complexion, I fear.”

“You know very well why I wear those horrid colors, Lucius. But let’s just put all that aside for now and have a nice afternoon together, please?”

“Of course, love. No false flags between us today,” he agreed.

With a nod of acknowledgment, Narcissa opened the wicker hamper and removed the simple platinum-rimmed white china and sterling flatware, setting it on the quilt between them. A generous container of the chicken salad she’d requested had been placed under a cooling charm so that the green grapes would stay crisp and juicy. She pulled out the wedge of extra-sharp cheddar and the crunchy baguette, breaking off a substantial chunk for each of them. She handed Lucius a small, sharp knife that he used to portion pieces of the cheese while she doled out their servings of the chicken salad.

They shared amiable chatter while eating their midday meal and sipping on their chilled white wine. Lucius had conjured a great stack of pillows to lean on from a handful of leaves, and he reclined against them while his wife rested her head on his lap. She looked up at him and asked, “Would you like a little something sweet?”

He grinned at her and bent to take her lips with his own. “I thought you’d never ask, love.”

She let his kiss linger as his arms wrapped around her for long moments. “That was lovely, dear, but I meant to offer dessert. We have lemon tarts,” she told him.

“Well, I’d hardly call you a tart, dear, and you are far too sweet to be called a lemon,” he teased.

“Silly you,” she scolded mockingly. She sat up from her resting position and reached into the hamper for two flaky lemon tarts, heaped with fresh sweetened whipped cream. Handing him one plate, she dipped her finger in the cream of her own treat and swiped it across his lips. “See, dessert can be very sweet indeed.”

“You minx,” he teased, as he pressed his lips to hers once more, sharing the sweet cream between them.

They ate the delectable confections, taking time to nip at each other’s lips between bites. Narcissa set her unfinished dessert aside, and peered at her husband, something clearly on her mind.

“Speak, dear. It’s written all over your face,” he urged.

“Well, it’s really silly, but eating the dessert reminded me of something very odd that happened in the kitchens earlier.”

“Odd? How so?” he asked, intrigued. How often did strange things happen in a kitchen, after all?

“When I was selecting things for our meal, I asked for some chocolate mousse cake – which, by the way, you apparently polished off as a midnight snack – and when I learned there was none left, one of the house-elves offered some chocolate truffles. So far, nothing odd there, right? Then, one of the other house-elves, Mitsy – you know, the one we got about four years ago? – goes a little crazy and insists that nobody can eat those truffles but Master Draco. That they are his favorites, and are reserved just for him.”

Lucius, looking appropriately chagrined for his late night sweet-theft, acknowledged his son’s love of chocolate, which was something of a family trait. “Well, I can understand a man wanting to keep a special treat for himself now and again.”

“I can, too, Lucius. And I don’t know why this unsettled me so. It’s probably because Mitsy was so panicked over the thought of someone taking Draco’s truffles. And the other thing that troubled me is that I don’t recall placing an order for that particular treat.”

“Maybe it’s something that Draco orders himself,” he suggested reasonably.

Narcissa shook her head slightly with doubt. “Since when has Draco ever taken the initiative to place food orders on his own? I think I’ll check out the Honeyduke’s invoices and see if they show up there.”

“I’m sure they will, love. He probably just added them somewhere along the way and they’ve become part of our standard delivery.”

“Hmm. Maybe,” she agreed reluctantly. But something was tickling at her brain, and she just couldn’t recall why the truffles seemed to mean something more. It was a topic she’d revisit later. For now, her husband had leaned into her and was lightly nipping at her long, elegant neck.

“Mmmm. Now this is what I call delicious,” he murmured against her throat.

“And it’s all about the neck, love. Nibble me there, and I’ll follow you anywhere,” she laughed throatily.

Lucius wrapped his arms tightly around his witch, and Apparated them directly into their lavish bedroom. “How’s here?” he laughed, and tugged her over to join him on their massive bed.

“This will do nicely,” she agreed, and set her hands to teasingly open the buttons of his shirt, one at a time. She placed a trail of kisses on his lean and well-defined chest and abdomen as they were exposed by her action. The light dusting of blond hair that narrowed to a thin line above and below his navel tickled her nose and she stopped briefly when she reached the impediment of his belt.

Rather than allow her to continue on her current path, regardless of the engorged treat that awaited her there, Lucius lifted her to meet his gaze, and kissed her deeply while he worked his own magic on the buttons of her bodice. He was pleasantly surprised to discover she’d chosen not to wear a corset or brassiere under her robe. Her rosy nipples were so inviting that he could not help but to take one into his mouth and suckle it deeply, causing the bud to pucker in response and his wife to moan in delight.

“Merlin, Lucius,” she whispered, “I’ll never tire of you doing that. It sends shocks right to my very core every time.”

“Mmmm. I quite like it, too, coeur,” he murmured against her skin, traversing across to ensure that both breasts received equal attention. He peppered kisses along her torso, pushing the bodice of her dress from her shoulders and tracing light patterns with his fingers over her velvety skin.

Lucius’ caress made her heart soar with joy at the love that they shared, but a melancholy darkness invaded as she spared a thought for the one tangible product of their love, their son Draco. Would he ever feel this kind of connection with another person? Would the sickness that invaded his soul – whatever its source – yield to allow him to join his heart and body with a woman who could make him whole in the same way Lucius completed her? The thought that her boy would never know that kind of bliss saddened her immeasurably, and she felt a tear escape to trail down her cheek.

“What’s wrong, ma coeur?” Lucius whispered.

She shook her head slightly, as much to rid herself of the thought as to deny any problem. “Just a thought to our boy, cher. I pray that someday he will know love like ours.”

“We will help him. I don’t know how, but we will find a way,” he pledged, holding her in an enveloping embrace and willing his wife to feel his own care for the fate of their family. She responded with kisses filled with passion and need, and lifted her hips to slip her robe off, discarding it in a heap over the edge of the bed. Lucius traced his finger along the top edge of the pink silk panties that covered her center.

“Soixante-neuf, mon ange?” he asked.

“Oui, s’il vous plait, mon cher,” she agreed, a sly grin creasing her face.

Lucius rose from the bed, shrugged the shirt from his shoulders, unbuckled his belt, and removed his trousers and charcoal silk boxers, exposing his thick, erect penis to her eager gaze. He reached for her and slid her own silk undergarment from her hips. He rejoined his wife on their bed and turned so that he could kiss her mound intimately while she wrapped his length with her lips. His teeth and tongue teased her swollen bud, then moved a few centimeters to lap at her juices. “Mmmm. Sucre,” he murmured against her, and redoubled his efforts.

Narcissa had taken her husband’s full length into her throat – no small feat – and tugged and pushed his hips, encouraging him to thrust to create friction against her tongue. On each retreat, she swirled her tongue around his head. At each thrust, she allowed him deep entry. They were both feeling delicious pressure build, when Narcissa pulled away with a gasp. “Inside me, Lucius, please,” she pleaded, rolling to her back.

“Oui, mon ange.”

He positioned himself between her open knees, resting on his haunches, and tugged her hips up along his thighs to meet his glistening erection. He thrust into her slick opening and wrapped his hands around her ribs to lift her upright into an embrace. It took a great deal of strength to maintain thrusting in this position, but Lucius was a virile and skilled lover and his wife was a petite woman. He continued to stroke while encouraging his wife to seek her own pleasure. His hips pistoned slowly and deeply while he used his lips and tongue to tease the spot where Narcissa’s neck and shoulder met. Her mewls of pleasure encouraged his movement, and he sped his thrusting as he felt her lubrication increase and her breathing get more shallow. She was close, and so was he. He released the tight hold he had on her torso and lowered her back to the bed, then shifted his weight forward to lengthen and deepen his strokes while the angle of penetration ensured that his pubis made contact with her nub. Four more thrusts had Narcissa crying out in ecstasy and her vaginal walls clenching around his throbbing penis. Two more strokes had Lucius grunting his own intense release as he held his position, sheathed to the hilt, his thighs and buttocks clenching with the effort.

He fell to the bed, exhausted and panting, and rolled her over atop his body without disconnecting their intimate joining. “Je t’aime, mon coeur,” he whispered into her hair.

“Moi aussi, je t’aime.”

“I know I don’t say it terribly often, my dearest, but I really do, you know. I would do anything for you. Anything to keep you happy,” he confessed.

“And I, you, Lucius. But I do wonder…”

“What’s that, love?”

“Do you love me enough to let me die when the time comes?”

“I’ll never let you go, my love, but I will let the world think that I have, if it means that in the end, we’ll have each other forever.”

The lovers slept peacefully in each other’s arms for a couple of hours before nature’s other call necessitated Lucius rising from their nest. When he returned to the bedchamber, his wife had risen and wrapped a light silk robe around her slim frame. “I think I’m going to draw a bath, darling. Would you care to join me?” she offered.

“As much as I’d love to, I do have a meeting to attend this evening. I’ll just grab a quick shower and leave you to have a nice long soak.”

“That’s fine, my sweet. Will you be home late?” she asked as she turned on the taps in the massive marble tub, adding rose oil and essence of lily to the water.

“Probably around midnight, I’d guess. I dare say I’ll have some things for you to pass along tomorrow,” he hinted.

“That’s good to know. I’ll pop over to Andy’s tonight since you’ll be out so late.”

“Fine idea, love,” he agreed as he turned the taps on for each of the three shower heads in the marble walk-in he’d added when the master bath had been remodeled a few years earlier. Lucius did love his Muggle-style shower. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had taken Hermione four more weeks before she began to feel closer to her normal self. She’d not been especially shocked that Malfoy had tried to kill her. After all, she was nearly certain that he’d been the wizard who'd tried – and failed – once before, while they were still at Hogwarts. Still, it was disconcerting to be the target of a killer, especially one whom she’d known since she was only eleven years old. How he’d become such a ruthless psychopath had been the topic of conversation for many days after she’d told her friends and compatriots that he’d been her attacker.

As she thought back over the last few months, Hermione recalled how many ups and downs their tight-knit group of fighters had been through. From elation to despair, it seemed that they’d experienced every emotion along the spectrum in such a short time. One highlight had been about five months earlier, when they’d had positive confirmation from a supposedly unimpeachable source that the seventh Horcrux was contained in Voldemort’s familiar, the massive snake known as Nagini. It had saved them enormous amounts of work – and funds that were always in short supply – to have that information. The only downside was that they were reasonably certain that it would only be very near a final battle before they’d be able to eliminate that particular obstacle, as the snake was always at the evil wizard’s feet. The information, however, had caused their former Headmaster to laugh with glee and relief for the first time in months – since his dear friend Severus’ murder – and that had made everyone feel just a bit more optimistic and lighthearted, at least for a short time.

Sadly, it hadn’t taken long for there to be another setback. Four separate leads that they’d had on the nature and location of the sixth Horcrux had turned out to be dead ends, and they had had no new intelligence on that subject for at least a month – the last time that Hermione had ventured out to nearly meet her demise. Hermione was getting a bit testy about the lack of progress, and that made everyone around her on edge. Hermione, when pushed to her limits, did not hide her frustrations well.

That lesson had been painfully learned by Ron Weasley. Once the ginger-haired wizard had recovered sufficiently to be released from St. Mungo’s – nearly a year after he’d been admitted – he’d rejoined his friends at Hogwarts and had been added to the team of researchers that had once been only Hermione and Neville. Most people acknowledged that this move was not so much because of his skill as a researcher, but because he hadn’t recovered sufficient motor skill to be trained as a fighter, and placing him with Hermione meant that someone could keep an eye on him and minimize the amount of trouble he might otherwise cause with his volatile temper and short attention span.

Ron’s dependence on Hermione had led to an awkward relationship of sorts. He followed her like a lost puppy everywhere she went, and Hermione’s generally good nature meant that she was reluctant to push him away. They’d “dated” for a few months – as much as a couple could when they were effectively confined to the Hogwarts grounds – and managed a few snogging sessions and stolen moments in darkened, unused classrooms, but Hermione’s discomfort with the young man who’d become so clingy and reliant on her grew with every private meeting. She’d done her best to end it without hurting the boy she’d been close to for so long, but he had been inconsolable when she’d told them they would never really be more than best friends – of the platonic sort. They hadn’t been able to have a conversation in weeks that didn’t end in one of them in tears. Dumbledore had reluctantly pulled Ron from the research team to give them both a bit of breathing room, but their close proximity in the castle had made for many silent meals and uncomfortable evenings. Hermione had, to no one’s surprise, buried herself in more research and study to avoid spending time with the young man. She hoped that, someday, they’d be able to occupy the same room without wanting to strangle each other, but that day had not yet arrived.

The next layer of difficulty had been finding something for Ron to actually do, and Dumbledore had allowed him to act as a practice dueling partner so that some of the fighters who were recovering from battle or training injuries would have a way to work themselves back into shape. That had actually worked reasonably well, and a sense of détente had returned to the erstwhile couple. They did, after all, have a mutual goal to achieve, and that was infinitely more important than their personal squabbles.

Dumbledore’s Army had clearly defined their three critical goals for the foreseeable future, and everyone would have a role to play. First, they would need to do everything in their power to protect the innocents – Muggles, Muggle-born children, and Squibs – and assist sympathetic purebloods and half-bloods by sharing information and self-defense strategies. Second, the Strike Team would attempt to increase the rate of capture or incapacitation of known Death Eaters. Finally, the efforts to identify and destroy what they had come to call “Horcrux Number Six” would be redoubled.

Hermione, knowing that the third goal’s success rested firmly in her lap, was chomping at the bit to overcome the setbacks that had plagued their efforts for the last several weeks. It had been more than a month – just before she’d been attacked - since they’d developed any new clues about the last unknown Horcrux, and her impatience and frustration were beginning to drag on her focus. She desperately needed a break, or a breakthrough, and fast.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Narcissa had taken a light supper of spinach soufflé with garlic toast after her husband’s departure for his meeting. She hoped that he’d not be terribly late, and instructed Tuppy to have a selection of soup and sandwiches available for him when he returned. Since she’d not planned to meet her sister until a little later in the evening, she had some time to return to the correspondence that she’d set aside when Lucius had surprised her with an afternoon visit.

One hour later, the saddening post had been completed and sent off via owl, and she turned her attention to some bookkeeping for the household accounts. Receipts for their numerous leased land holdings were recorded and bills were paid. Her memory was jogged when she issued cheques for several grocery vendors that she wanted to examine the invoices for Honeyduke’s and those mysterious truffles.

She murmured aloud as she reviewed the items that had been sent to them over the last couple of months, and she ticked off each item that she recalled either serving or sampling. “Cashew clusters, treacle fudge, caramel crèmes, dark chocolate dipped cherries, white chocolate strawberries, and almond bark. But no truffles.”

 _Well,_ she thought, _that’s decidedly odd. Maybe they were ordered from another purveyor._

Narcissa checked three other invoices from various sweet shops, including the one in Paris that Lucius adored, and found nothing to indicate that truffles had been ordered by Draco or any one else in the household. She rose from her desk, intent on getting to the bottom of this mystery once and for all.

She made her way to the kitchen and, as expected, was greeted by her three house-elves before she would completely cross the threshold.

“Whats can we does for missus?” Tuppy squeaked.

“I would like to see the box for Master Draco’s truffles so that I can make sure they are reordered for him. Take them out for me,” she ordered in her best ‘efficient Lady of the Manor’ voice.

This prompted a terribly unusual, though not entirely unexpected, reaction from Mitsy, the house-elf who’d clearly been appointed at the sole protector of Master Draco’s truffles. She shrieked much as she had hours earlier, and barricaded the cabinet once again with her body.

“No, Missus! Pleases don’t. That bees Mitsy’s job to get Master Dracoses truffles. Mitsy dieses if she doesn’t takes care of Master Dracoses truffles,” the little creature sobbed.

This piece of news enraged Narcissa. “Are you telling me that Master Draco threatened to kill you if you didn’t order his truffles?”

“No, Missus! Mitsy can’ts says. Mitsy will dies!”

Seeing that this line of questioning was getting her nowhere, Narcissa decided to try another tack. “How do you reorder Master Draco’s truffles, Mitsy?”

Sniffling and wringing her moss-green hands, Mitsy answered her mistress, “Mitsy tapses the box two timeses, and new truffles comes.”

“What about when Master Draco is away?” Narcissa wondered aloud, as her son was only home at the Manor irregularly.

“Master Draco always takeses boxes wif hims,” Mitsy confirmed.

“I would like to try just one of Master Draco’s truffles, just to be sure they are of sufficient quality. Please get one for me,” Narcissa instructed.

Mitsy’s weeping and wailing reached a fever pitch, and she began to pound her head against the cold stone floor. When ordered to stop, she complied, but moved to the stove and placed her bare hands upon the hot plates. Narcissa winced as she heard the creature’s skin sizzle. She shouted, “Stop that now!” and the tiny house-elf retreated to a corner, sobbing loudly.

“Tuppy, get a truffle for me, now,” Narcissa instructed.

Tuppy moved to the cabinet, intent on following her mistress’ orders. As she reached to open the cupboard, she was violently repelled by a shielding charm that burned her fingers and singed what little hair she had off her head.

Narcissa gasped and lifted her wand to try to remove whatever spell had guarded the cabinet. Four attempts yielded no success; if anything, it seemed that the shield had strengthened. This is just extraordinary, she thought. I think this will require some help from Lucius.

“Make sure that you get Jilly to heal any injuries that either of you has suffered,” she hissed through gritted teeth as she stalked out of the kitchen.

It was clear that there was more to this truffle issue than met the eye, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it. The fact that she still couldn’t recall why truffles niggled at the back of her memory was annoying and frustrating, but she’d have to leave it for later deliberation. In the meantime, she had an appointment to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **French Translations:**
> 
> Coeur = Heart
> 
> Soixante-neuf, mon ange = Sixty-nine, my angel
> 
> Oui, s’il vous plait, mon cher = Yes, if you like, my dear
> 
> Sucre = sugar, sweet
> 
> Oui, mon ange = Yes, my angel
> 
> Je t’aime, mon coeur = I love you, my heart
> 
> Moi aussi, je t’aime – I love you too


	22. Anxiety

_Previously:_

_“So, our mutual ignorance of news aside, we still both think that someone knows we’re here, and we still don’t have any clues as to why they’ve not come to retrieve us.”_

_“The most likely explanation for that is that they’ve been otherwise occupied, to borrow your phrase.”_

_“What could keep someone busy for two whole days when they know that a violent rapist and his victim are alone together somewhere out in the woods, Granger?”_

_“Good question, Malfoy.”_

 

“What if my mother did send us here, but someone else found out that she wasn’t dead? Someone who wasn’t happy about it? If that happened, and she was captured or actually killed for real, we’d probably be shit out of luck here.”

“Don’t borrow more trouble than we already have, Draco,” Hermione cajoled. “If we were at Malfoy Manor, wouldn’t your father have been able to protect her?”

“If he knew she was there, but only to a certain extent. My aunt had the run of the place, and the Dark Lord used it as a base of operations for years, as I told you earlier. If my mother was supposed to be dead and was maybe even working against the Dark Lord, her life wouldn’t be worth a single Knut if he found her miraculously alive at the Manor.”

“So you’re saying that if she’s the only one who orchestrated our trip here, and for some reason she’s been incapacitated, we’re likely to be on our own for a good while longer.”

“That is indeed one possibility.”

“Not one I’m terribly happy to entertain, thank you very much,” she replied.

“Wouldn’t be my first choice either,” Draco confirmed.

“Well, that’s only one scenario. I can imagine a half-dozen other possibilities, though none of them are particularly heartening.”

“Then I suppose I can be grateful that little Miss Sunshine won’t be blowing any smoke up my arse,” Draco whined morosely.

Ignoring his taunt, she continued, “At some point, we may need to think about a strategy beyond surviving in place, Malfoy.”

“Yeah, my brain went there too. But neither one of us is in any shape to travel, and it’ll probably be three or four days before either one of us might be up to that. Don’t forget that we don’t really know exactly how far we are from a town or city.”

“The phonebook said …”

“I know what the phonebook said, Granger. But did you stop to think that just because the phonebook is for Whitfield, that really doesn’t mean that we are actually _in_ Whitfield?” he interrupted crossly.

“Uh, no. I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted, embarrassed that she had made the mistake of assuming. “You’re right, of course. I know my parents had phonebooks for places where we had lots of friends or relatives, but weren’t close at all to where they lived. I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much, Granger. I made the same leap. I only thought about the alternative just now, when the prospect of walking a few dozen miles in sub-freezing weather hit me square in the face.”

“I still can’t walk across the room, so yeah, travel is kind of off the agenda for a few days,” she agreed.

“So we should be prepared to stick around here for as much as a week if someone doesn’t come to retrieve us in the meantime.”

“I think that’s the most prudent course of action, yes.”

“If that’s the case, we’re going to need to make some decisions, Granger.”

“I know you mentioned the sleeping arrangements earlier. What else do we need to decide?” she prodded.

“Food rationing, general heating issues, how to deal with our various health issues, and planning some way to get contact with the outside world are just a few that come to mind,” he listed, ticking the fingers on his hand with each point made.

“Okay. All good thoughts. We should probably decide the maximum time we’ll stay here until we’re ready to travel to try to find help.”

“I’d say one week. I think that would be enough time for any potion residual to leave my system, so that ought to minimize any of the headaches or – what did you call them? DTs?”

“I think the time frame is probably realistic. But don’t underestimate how debilitating the DTs will be, Draco. They often put people in hospital, I’m sorry to say.”

Draco let out a frustrated breath. “Somewhere in that vastly overstuffed brain of yours, is there any knowledge about how to speed up getting a potion out of someone’s bloodstream?”

“Well, absent an antidote, which we obviously don’t have here if it even exists, there is one theory. It’s really quite simple, but if you’ve been taking this stuff for as long as we think, I’m not sure it will be enough. The poison is probably deeply embedded in your entire system – muscles, soft tissue, organs, bones, you name it - not just your blood.”

“I’m game to try, even if it helps a little. It’s better than doing nothing at all, I’d reckon.”

“It’s water.”

“Water?”

“Yes. Drink as much water as you possibly can. At least a full glass every hour.”

“And I’ll just piss the stuff out, huh?”

“Pretty much.”

“Greeeat. At least I’ll have clean kidneys,” he drawled sarcastically.

“You asked.”

He smirked in reply, but actually rose from his seat to get a glass of water from the kitchen. When he’d drained the vessel of its contents, he set it on the counter and returned to the sitting room. “One down. Several dozen more to go.”

“Let’s tackle food rationing next. We have a reasonable supply of food, if not much variety. Would you prefer to have a couple of smaller meals each day, or one slightly larger one?”

“Doesn’t matter much to me, but I’d think that it would be better to keep our energy levels more constant than to have big spikes, so I’d vote for two smaller meals.”

“I agree. When we prepare dinner for tonight, let’s divvy up the food for the next seven days and lay out the menus to make sure we get at least a little protein every day.”

“Sounds reasonable. But isn’t the SPAM the only thing that’s kind of like meat?”

“Yes, but beans have protein too, so we can alternate if we’re likely to run low on one or the other. I don’t remember how much of what we have, so we’ll deal with that later.”

“Okay, fine by me. What about heat?”

“Well, we haven’t had any success with getting the furnace started, but I’m not going to give up on that just yet. I swear there’s something I’m forgetting, but it just won’t come to me.”

“We at least have the fireplace, but it really only heats up this room and the kitchen. That’s not going to help all that much for sleeping.”

“We’ll come back to that one later. But for basic heat, keeping the fire stoked is our next best bet.”

“There’s still a little more wood in the cabinet, and a decent stack outside on the porch, but it won’t be enough for a full week if the weather stays as cold as it’s been for the last few days. I’ll have to go out and look around the cottage to see if there’s another stack of logs somewhere else.”

“I can’t think of any other approach, so that will have to do for now.”

“What about sleeping arrangements?”

“What if I sleep in the bed with most of the blankets and you sleep out here on the sofa?”

“That would be acceptable if the sofa wasn’t so damn short. It’s fine for a kip, but I had to hang my feet over the arm to fit. I’ll be completely useless if my body’s all twisted up like a pretzel after a night or two of that. You’re a lot shorter than me. What about you sleeping on the sofa and me in the bed?”

“Not comfortable enough with all the injuries I have. Like you said, it’s okay for a kip or hanging around, but not great to sleep on.”

“But you were going to make me sleep there anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, just so we’re clear on that.”

“If you’ll remember, Malfoy, my physical condition is significantly less healthy than yours.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he mumbled.

“So where does that leave us?”

“Neither of us can really use the smaller bedroom. It’s just way too cold in that room. I think there may be a crack in the window or something, because the draft in there is awful.”

“I hadn’t noticed in particular, because everything seemed so cold. I was, uh, unclothed for most of the time I was in that room, so I thought that was the reason.”

“You were naked?”

“Yes, I told you that before.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well I certainly don’t remember you saying that.”

“I told you. I didn’t dwell on it, but I know I told you.”

“So you were naked while you were tending to my, um, injuries?”

“Yes. I thought it was more important to try to help you than to go searching for clothes. I did that afterwards.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“You were naked! That’s the big deal!”

“Didn’t know you’d noticed.”

“Swine!” she screeched, then threw one of her pillows at his head.

He ducked, though it wouldn’t have mattered. It was a soft pillow. “Hey. I was a gentleman.” Mostly, he added mentally.

She eyed him warily. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not sharing everything there is to tell?”

“Dunno. The point we were getting to is that there is probably a cracked window or something that makes that room unusable. We should probably just close the door and not go back in there at all,” he suggested, desperately trying to divert her attention to other topics. He decided not to mention the damning blood stains on the floor.

“Hunh. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, but there are other issues to deal with for now, Malfoy, so I’ll leave it.”

“So does that mean we’re going to share the bed again?”

“How did you reach that conclusion? Are you delusional? I don’t want to share the bed with you again, Malfoy. It was traumatizing enough to wake up next to you this morning; I’d rather not have to repeat that.”

“It was traumatizing because it was a surprise. I’ll bet it wouldn’t be nearly as bad if you knew I was there when you fell asleep.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Malfoy. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were looking forward to the prospect. We may have reached a détente of sorts because we really don’t have a choice, but it doesn’t mean that I’m terribly happy to be here with you.”

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings, Granger. I’ll start to think you don’t like me anymore.”

“Sarcasm, Malfoy. I know what’s behind that, remember?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he replied, chastened. “Sorry. I guess I was just trying to ease the tension.”

“Let’s just keep going. We’re better when we stay pragmatic.”

“Agreed. But we still haven’t figured out what to do for sleeping arrangements.”

“How about we come back to that one later? What was next on the list?” she prompted, growing irritated at his constant harping on the topic.

“Um, I think it was dealing with our various injuries and health issues.”

“Right, well since we have no medical supplies, there’s very little we can do but rest.”

“And we already discussed my water therapy,” he snorted, shaking his head at the absurd simplicity.

“Which you have already begun,” she confirmed.

“I, uh, hate to ask, but are you, um, okay? Has the bleeding stopped?” Draco inquired, his face coloring once more with embarrassment.

“I’m pretty sure it has. I’m still very sore all over, and it still hurts to take really deep breaths, but I’m feeling a little better than I did yesterday.”

“Good.”

“I don’t think I have any other internal injuries.”

Draco groaned softly. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll add it to my list of things to hate myself for.”

“Don’t, Draco. I’m just being realistic. At some point, I’m going to need to see a Healer, but I don’t think there’s anything that’s life-threatening going on here. You took care of the biggest problem, which was the bleeding. I just need to get as much rest as I can for now, especially if we’re going to try to leave here in a week.”

“Yeah, about that – I’ve been thinking that it might be better for me to go find help alone so that you don’t have to go trekking for miles on end in your condition.”

“I’m not too thrilled with the idea of being here all alone.”

“But I’ll be able to travel much faster without you, and can get help back a lot sooner,” he argued.

“That may be true, but it’s a little early to make those decisions now anyway. Let’s see what develops in the next few days before we reach any conclusions,” she hedged.

“Fair enough.”

“What was the last thing?”

“Contacting the outside world,” Draco reminded her.

“That could be more complicated than meets the eye.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, we obviously don’t have any Muggle communication devices here, and without our wands we can’t send patronus messages. I doubt that we’ll be getting an owl visit, and the fireplace is clearly not connected to the Floo network.”

“I think all of that is fairly well established,” he agreed. “So what else would add to the complications?”

She looked up at him with reluctance and hesitated before she spoke.“The fact that we don’t know what’s going on out there right now. We’ve had no news, obviously, and there’s a possibility that I didn’t want to tell you about, but with everything we’re discussing, I think I have no choice. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if we try to make decisions without knowing. I should have said something before, when we first raised the possibility of leaving here. I’m sorry that I’ve kept it from you.” She took a breath and looked at the floor as she continued, “There were plans in the works that could have had a significant impact on the conditions we’ll find once we get back to wizarding London.”

“What kind of plans?” he nudged.

“I’m not prepared to discuss that with you right now. Just that things could be very different when we return, for better or worse.”

“So the Order was planning a final offensive?” he guessed.

“Something along those lines, but I’m not going to say any more about that now.”

“I get it. You don’t trust me, and with good reason. But we all know that this war can’t go on forever. Something has got to break in one direction or the other soon or there won’t be any wizards left at all, no matter what their blood status is,” he stated firmly.

“You’re right about that, at least. When the tallies are added, it wouldn’t shock me to know that we’ve lost nearly half of the witches and wizards in Great Britain,” she agreed sadly.

“So the bottom line, if I’m getting your inferences correctly, is that either one of us could be in for some major trouble if we head out on our own,” he concluded.

“I’d say that’s it in a nutshell.”

“Then we definitely need to re-think the idea of going out for help.”

“That’s kind of where I was heading. At the very least, we need to do it together, if it comes to that.”

Draco nodded his head reluctantly. “Agreed. It would be foolhardy to go out there alone and get ambushed or captured by someone that would put either of us in a worse situation than we’re in now.”

“Is there anything else we need to negotiate for now?” she prompted.

“Except for the sleeping arrangements, nothing comes to mind.”

“I’m not ready to have that discussion just yet. Leave it for later,” she answered pointedly.

Draco shrugged, apparently willing to let the topic rest for awhile. Her reluctance was understandable, but they would need to confront the issue before long. Freezing to death was not an idea he relished, particularly when a little cooperation could prevent the problem completely. He recognized that her fear was not unwarranted; his brutal treatment of her, regardless of its origin, should make her wary and cautious around him. His internal struggle and heartache over his horrific behavior was not something she could see – or trust. The handful of relapses he’d had made him frightened of what atrocities he might still be capable of committing. The question he couldn’t answer was the one that really burned between the two of them – Has the potion’s influence diminished enough that he was truly in control of his own actions, or would another compulsion overcome him at any time?

She was snapping her fingers.

“Hello! Earth to Draco!” she called.

“Huh?”

“Are you still with me?”

“Sorry, I guess I was thinking, and I didn’t register a word you said,” he explained.

“Apparently. Whatever it was must be pretty intense; you looked like your brain had vacated your skull for a minute,” she prodded.

Draco twisted his lips into a half grin-half smirk. “Nothing to worry about, Granger. I was just thinking about how logical and sensible you are.”

“Did you actually just pay me a compliment?” she teased.

“I guess I did. Even when I despised you for being a know-it-all swot, I could never deny that you were smart. Anyway, what were you saying?”

“I was asking if you were getting hungry. It’s been several hours since we ate, and my stomach is starting to cramp and grumble. I was hoping that maybe we could have a little dinner.”

“Oh, sure. I think that’s a great idea. Do you want me to fix something for both of us?”

“I think that would be good. I still don’t think I can stand on my own. I wish I understood why I’m still so weak,” she observed.

Draco cleared his throat to hide his discomfort with her pronouncement, and turned his head to hide the flush that he knew was staining his cheeks. “Uh, I’d guess it’s because of how much blood you lost, Granger. That would have to leave you a bit feeble.”

“You’re probably right. We’re so accustomed to using blood replenishing potions that it feels particularly odd to not have that immediate healing.”

“And if I’d had a wand, I could have sealed your wounds much more quickly and effectively.”

“What’s done is done, Draco. I didn’t say it to make you feel bad again. It was a simple observation. I just wish I could help you more, especially with simple things like cooking.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Granger. You may not have helped physically, but without your instructions and coaching, we’d have been sunk. You saw how clueless I am about Muggle stuff. I’m pretty useless here without you,” he admitted.

She let out a breath that registered as a single rumble of laughter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d never been in a Muggle building before.”

“Well, I have, but I’ve never had to actually _do_ anything. And if I did, I always had a wand, so there was no reason or opportunity for me to learn about any of the things I saw. I will admit that I’ve never been in a Muggle kitchen before, except maybe to walk through one. I had no clue what any of those machines were.”

“That was apparent. Well, I guess it’s not a bad thing that we’re here together, then. Between the two of us, we’re probably just about functioning as one whole, normal person,” she concluded.

“I must confess that I never thought I’d see the day when I could appreciate you being a Mud…ggle-born. Sorry,” he stumbled over his gaffe.

“Old habits die hard, Draco. I won’t hold it against you,” she allowed, meeting his embarrassed visage with a gracious smile.

“Well, us yakking away in here isn’t going to get us fed, so let’s put your brain together with my hands and figure out a meal,” he said, hoping to shift the topic away from his numerous failings and onto practical matters.

“Fine idea, Draco.”

He was staggered when she raised her arms in an obvious invitation for him to lift and carry her from her spot on the sofa into the kitchen. He’d known she’d need the help, but it just felt like such a child-like, innocent gesture, that it had taken him entirely off guard. He knew it wasn’t about trust – not really – but it was clear that she was relying on him willingly. His chest felt hot and constricted, and he couldn’t resist the urge to rub the heel of his palm against his sternum. It was a humbling moment for the confused young man. He swallowed thickly and approached the woman, bending his knees slightly for leverage to elevate her.

An hour later, they had managed to sort through their food supply and plan meals for the next seven days, and had prepared and consumed a supper of pan-fried SPAM, creamed corn and stewed tomatoes. The cooking vessels and dishes had been sterilized with boiling water, and Draco had guzzled two more glasses of the cold liquid. When Hermione had watched him with uncertainty, he’d told her that he’d drink a couple of quarts an hour if it would help rid his body of the poisonous potion that had infected him for so long. Her warning about kidney shut-down with too much water consumption had moderated his position, as had two trips to the loo in just over forty-five minutes.

Nightfall had now settled upon the cottage, and Draco had turned on overhead lights to chase away the dark shadows. The early March date led him to guess that it was about half six, or possibly seven o’clock. There were still a couple of hours to go before either of them would be sleepy enough to think about retiring for the night, especially considering the rest they’d both taken that afternoon. When silence accompanied the darkness, Draco wondered if they would just sit there staring at each other, or if one of them would try to fill the quiet with conversation. What did they really have to talk about, beyond their current predicament? Draco considered. They had exhausted most of the topics that needed to be discussed, with the exception of the sleeping arrangements issue, and Granger had made it clear she wasn’t eager to revisit that matter until absolutely necessary. He figured that would be about five minutes before bedtime. So that left topics of an optional nature, or no conversation at all. How uncomfortable would that be? Draco snorted mentally. Either scenario, for that matter.

Granger was once again perched as comfortably as possible on the sofa, while Draco sat in the armchair near the fireplace. They had already endured about fifteen minutes of that awkward hush, with no sound but the crackle and hiss of logs burning in the grate. With the little that Draco truly knew of her from their Hogwarts days, he was still not surprised that Granger was the first to break the tentative peace.

“Draco?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, or if you can’t remember, but I’m really curious about something.”

“Ask away, Granger.”

“Was there a specific reason that you tried to kill me three times? Did I do something in particular that provoked you?”

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on his knees, and peered up through his blond fringe at his treble victim. “Yes, and no, in that order.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Granger, are you really asking me to do this now? Please, I don’t want to try to remember. My headache just started to lessen about twenty minutes ago, and I’m not anxious to have it return any time soon,” he answered, with just an edge of pleading in his tone.

“Oh, okay. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” she demurred. An embarrassed flush crossed her cheeks as she turned away. She had the look of a puppy scolded for missing the training paper at his rebuff.

“Can’t we just talk about something else? I want a break from all this, just for a little while,” he offered.

“Oh, um, sure. What would you like to talk about?”

“Damned if I know,” he joked, a half-grin tweaking his lips.

She barked a laugh, and confessed, “Well, if I really tell the truth, that’s what I wanted too. The silence was crushing me. If I can’t read, I like to talk. Doesn’t mean I’m not curious about what I asked you, but if we’re going to be here for a week, it can wait until your system has less of that crap in it.”

“Yeah, what I wouldn’t give for a great book about now,” he agreed.

“You like to read?” she exclaimed, her surprise evident.

“Of course I like to read. The Manor has one of the largest private libraries in all of Europe. I grew up around books.” He watched her shake her head in apparent amazement.

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me, about your library. I’ll bet it’s quite impressive.”

“A swot like you would have orgasms just walking around in there,” he teased.

“Watch it, Malfoy, unless you never want to have one again,” she warned.

“And just how do you think you’d accomplish that, with no wand and barely able to crawl?” he smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Empty threat, of course. Just wanted to emphasize my displeasure at your tone,” she admitted, shrugging with a ghost of a grin. “Besides, I’ll just save up all my hexing for when I get my wand back.”

“After everything I’ve put you through, I’ll even give you one free shot – as long as it’s not the Avada Kedavra,” he amended.

“Hmm. I may have to hold you to that,” she agreed. “What kind of books did you like to read when you were a kid?”

“I always loved a good mystery. Something I could noodle through and figure out. How about you?”

“I liked mysteries, too, but my reading taste is very eclectic. I like sci-fi, and romance, and biographies too.”

“What’s ‘syfy’?”

“It’s short for science fiction,’ she explained.

“And that means…”

Hermione took a breath, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and took another breath. She was struggling mightily to figure out how to explain the decidedly Muggle genre to this truly blue-blood wizard.

“Granger?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Obviously not terribly successfully.”

“It’s just that science fiction is so hard to explain to someone who doesn’t know the Muggle world,” she said, her face still scrunched up with deliberation.

“I’m not stupid; give it a shot.”

“I know you’re not stupid. You’ve done very well in adapting to this situation,” she complimented, waving her hand to indicate their environs.

He lifted one eyebrow in anticipation. “So?” he prompted.

“Well, it’s usually about space travel, and beings from other planets, and very often includes very advanced machines and weaponry. There are often deity themes, and socio-political commentary is fairly de rigueur.”

Draco’s open-mouthed gawk told Hermione everything she needed to know about his level of comprehension. “Granger, I understood the individual words, but… what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Maybe it’s better we leave science fiction discussions for another time. It’s exceptionally, uh, complicated to put all of those concepts together at once when you’ve had no exposure to them,” she mollified his ego.

“It actually sounds fascinating, but I’m not sure my brain is in any shape to process all of that properly right now, regardless of my own vast stores of native intelligence,” he added with mock imperiousness.

“I honestly think you’d like it, if you could get past the Muggle elements,” she encouraged.

“Well, that won’t be today, no matter how you look at it,” he concluded.

“Fair enough. I’ll bet that there were lots of fascinating things in your family’s library, though. What’s the thing that stands out most in your memory?” she wondered.

Draco laughed loudly and genuinely. When he recovered his senses sufficiently to speak again, he said, “The truth is that my father always kept the darker texts in a separate wing under heavy security, so I never found those when I was growing up. But I will never forget the day that I found his extensive – and I mean massive – collection of wizard’s porn.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! I was about twelve years old, and let me tell you, that was one hell of an education. He found me sitting in the library, surrounded by the stuff, and I got my hide tanned with hexes for snooping. His collection disappeared after that, and much to my disappointment in my teenage years, I never saw it again.”

“I must admit, I don’t know quite what to say to that,” Hermione commented as a smirk of her own creased her face. “It seems that you were a pretty normal teenager.”

“Yeah, for a while anyway,” he answered quietly, his sadness overtaking their amusement at his pre-teen adventure. “How did I get so screwed up?” he asked rhetorically.

“I wish I knew, Draco. With everything that you’ve been through, I truly wish I could do something to help erase all that from your past.”

“Regardless of how much I was taught to hate you and your kind, Granger, I can’t deny that you’re not what I thought you were. You didn’t deserve what I did to you.”

“And you didn’t deserve what was done to you, Draco,” she retorted. “It’s unimaginable.”

“But that’s really not true, Granger.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, someone obviously was able to imagine it, because they caused it to happen,” he stated simply and logically.


	23. Inquiry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence in this chapter.

_**Two Years and Five Months Ago** _

_How had it come to this?_ Albus Dumbledore wondered. _Why had they been stalled so long on one – admittedly pivotal – problem?_ They had had one major breakthrough in the last six months, and then hit another brick wall. He was becoming concerned for his tiny team of researchers as he saw their frustrations boil over from time to time, and internal bickering had sometimes impeded their progress. He remembered how ecstatic Hermione had been when their research had confirmed what a deep-cover informant had told them about the final unidentified Horcrux – that it had belonged to Hogwarts co-founder Rowena Ravenclaw. If only she could recapture that enthusiasm and energy, they might make real progress in discovering exactly what item of Rowena’s was a likely candidate.

If the external battles hadn’t become so brutal, so frequent, and so geographically widespread, he would have reassigned a couple of field fighters to aid Hermione and Neville in their research. But conditions in the field made that completely impossible. The Death Eaters had begun to target Muggles totally unconnected to the magical world in large numbers, and had carried out mass casualty attacks in Trafalgar Square, Kensington, Harrod’s, and King’s Cross. Ministry Aurors and Dumbledore’s Army were stretched frightfully thin. So the curly-haired witch and her tall, now skinny year-mate labored on with only the Headmaster’s guidance and their informant’s infrequent, though helpful, clues.

Albus Dumbledore needed something to spur the girl and her partner on, and he had an idea. While he didn’t know the identity of the infiltrator for certain, he had his suspicions. What he did know was to whom the information had been funneled, and he decided that it was time for the spy to step up into the light. He placed a direct Floo to Floo call to see if negotiations could be opened to arrange a meeting.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bellatrix had restocked Draco’s supply of chocolate truffles dozens upon dozens of times with no incident and without interference or concern. His obvious addiction to the potions with which she and her husband had imbued the confection was evidenced by the number of times she’d had to replenish the treacherous sweets.

There had been one little wrinkle, several months ago, that had the dark witch just a bit wary. Mitsy, the house-elf that she had threatened and manipulated into doing her bidding, had dutifully reported Narcissa’s attempt to discover the truffles’ origin. The tiny creature had assured her true mistress that the threat had been effectively deflected, and there had been no further inquiries from Missus Malfoy. Bella and Rodolphus had breathed heavy sighs of relief when the next two or three deliveries had been made without interference and assumed that any impediment to their plot had been averted.

“I think we need to add a little extra ‘insurance’ to the formula, Bella,” Rodolphus had told her just days after they’d learned of Narcissa’s scrutiny.

“What did you have in mind?” Bella wondered.

“Two things. First, I’m going to increase the addictive ingredient by about twenty-five percent. That ought to ensure that Draco will do just about anything to get the truffles. Second, I’m thinking about reinforcing the compulsion spells. We haven’t done that in a while, and I can see that he’s been backing off on the levels of, uh, enthusiasm in our raids over the last few weeks. He’s been slightly less effective than usual and I want him in fighting form.”

“I agree. Do both,” she’d answered, clearing the way for another layer of control and manipulation to infect her nephew. “I will also accompany him on the next two or three raids, and we should be sure to include him prominently in the next revel.”

Bella had been true to her word, and watched firsthand the effect that her husband’s alterations to the treats had had on her sister’s eighteen-year-old son. He had killed two male Muggles in the first raid in which they’d participated, and she’d stood by and watched the rapture on the young blond’s face as his powerful orgasm overtook him when the men had drawn their final breaths, her own core slick and hot with arousal.

The revel in the woods two days later had been most entertaining. Bella had been amused at Draco’s stamina and recovery as he’d raped and tortured three young women – one Muggle and two Mudbloods – in less than two hours. She had asked him to leave their deaths to her, and he’d come for a fourth time that night with minimal assistance from his left hand as he eagerly watched the three females die at Bella’s wand. Bella’s own orgasm echoed in the trees minutes later as her husband took her from behind in full view of the gathered throng of Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had then allowed the assemblage their night of drunken debauchery after he’d called Bella away for a private encounter. He did so appreciate her willing mouth and flickering tongue. She’d pleasured him for long minutes, finding another release with eager fingers against her own center when the creature who’d once been Tom Riddle screamed his completion with pulses of thick semen into her throat. He’d wheezed a laugh and viciously twisted her bared nipples with long, bony fingers when she licked her own juices from her sticky fingers, prolonging the shuddering waves of pleasure that she’d felt.

No one, though, had deemed it terribly odd that Draco’s father had begged off for the evening; after all, his wife was desperately ill and his devotion to her care was well known, even among a group so generally callous.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lucius had been concerned and baffled when his wife had informed him about the strange second encounter she’d had with Mitsy over the truffles that she’d apparently been ordered to protect with her life. The house-elf had denied that Draco was the source of the threat, but wouldn’t – or couldn’t – offer any other information about who had enslaved her to that task. The three attempts he’d made to access the cupboard where they were stored had been met with interference from the tiny creature. In an abundance of caution, he’d Obliviated the magical beasts of all three events. No use alerting someone that their treachery was suspected. He was terribly distressed that he’d not yet been able to gain access to the sealed cabinet, and was actively searching for a solution to that problem. He’d also told Narcissa to stop any of her own attempts to uncover the source of the confections until he was able to make some progress with his own research. He did encourage her to sift through her memories, with the use of his pensieve if necessary, to figure out why she was so uneasy about Draco’s apparent long history with the chocolate treats.

She’d been at it for weeks. Every day, Narcissa would draw out memories and place them in her husband’s pensieve, searching them hour upon hour for any clue, any detail that would give her insight into what had happened to her son. Working backwards, the worried mother had seen the drastic changes in her boy in their full measure. There appeared to be nothing left of the sweet child who’d called her “Mère” and cuddled with her on the chaise in her suite while she read aloud from an ancient book of wizard’s fairy tales. She reminisced over the captivated expression in his bright grey eyes and lamented how they now looked dull, listless, and cold. She wept more than once over her bitter trip backwards in time.

Eleven weeks and five days after her first foray into distressing reminiscences of her son, Narcissa had explored as far into the past as Draco’s penultimate term at Hogwarts, the spring term of his fifth year. The pallor in her skin which most attributed to her purported illness was now more genuine, caused not by any disease invading her body but by her heartsickness at seeing the evolution of her son’s appalling behavior during the past few years. The stark contrast in the fourteen year old Draco and the young man, who today shared nothing more than her genes, was shocking. It was in memories of the early weeks of that term that Narcissa found a tantalizing clue.

She recalled writing a letter in response to a request from her son for a specific treat. Her memory flooded back as she watched herself sitting at her ornately carved ladies’ desk, the delicate ostrich feather quill scratching lightly against the parchment:

_“Draco, darling, I’m so glad you’re enjoying the treats I’ve sent, but I’m afraid I’m at a loss. I don’t recall packaging anything in a silver box. Maybe one of the house-elves took it upon himself to decorate your little gifts a bit. I’ll make sure that more are sent, since you’re so fond of them. Do make sure that you eat something other than chocolates, dear. Protein is very important for a growing young man. Do take care, and write back soon._

_Your loving mother,”_ she’d written in reply to his impassioned request for more chocolate truffles.

She remembered feeling unsettled when his requests had begun to feel like demands, but since he’d typically sent a note acknowledging her packages, she’d set aside her worries and assumed that nothing was amiss. She sent him what he wanted, and he consumed his treats eagerly, apparently satisfied with the contents of the hampers from Malfoy Manor.

Now, she knew something was out of sorts. Fifth year was when Draco began to behave uncharacteristically, from her perspective. Narcissa had confirmed in household account records that she had never purchased a regular order of chocolate truffles to be included in Draco’s packages. She had never used a specially-wrapped silver box to contain any treats. Fifth year was when he’d begun to wax poetic about chocolate truffles that had, she was now certain, not come from her.

When her husband returned from his meetings later that evening, she had nearly pounced on him in her haste to tell him of her troubling discovery.

“Lucius!” she called as soon as the roar from the Floo had diminished. “I think I’ve stumbled upon something.”

“Have you, dear? That’s nice,” he teased. “Now what in blue blazes are you talking about?”

“What have I spent every waking hour researching for the last three months?” she retorted, one delicate eyebrow quirked in mild annoyance.

“Ah. I see. Draco’s truffles obsession, then,” he confirmed.

“Of course. It was during Draco’s fifth year at Hogwarts. I remembered a letter that he sent, begging for more truffles like the ones that had been packaged in a silver box. I checked my memories and saw the note that I wrote in response, in which I expressed that I wasn’t sure to which treats he’d referred. To make a long story short, I checked back through all of our household accounts from that time forward, and I’ve never ordered the truffles he requested, and I’ve never used a silver box for anything that I’ve sent to him. Someone else has been sending those treats to him for years, right under our very own noses, and we’ve completely failed to notice that their origin is wholly unknown.”

Lucius was quiet for a moment, and began to pace the room slowly and deliberately. It was clear that he was sorting through what his wife had said, trying to reconcile the level of betrayal that was undoubtedly at play with what he thought was impeccable security throughout Malfoy Manor. Somehow, that had been breached for an extended time by an unknown perpetrator. He wondered what else could have been compromised and his heart leapt into his throat at the possibilities. Fear was evident in his cool grey eyes as he finally met his wife’s gaze.

“I’ve got a couple of possibilities in mind, Narcissa, but I need evidence before I confront anyone on this. First things first, though. I need to get into that cabinet.” His own memory drifted back to a conversation he’d had with his brother-in-law three years earlier, when the man had expressed a burning desire to indoctrinate his nephew into the Death Eater ranks.

“Yes, but how? We’ve both tried countless times without success, and you’ve had to Obliviate the house-elves to keep our concern between us.”

“I will deal with the house-elves with a stasis spell. They won’t even know that they’ve been unaware. As far as getting into the cabinet, the Manor will recognize blood magic as a final authority. We’ll try that as our next step,” he stated with gruff authority.

“I’d rather not waste any more time. Shall we get started?”

“Yes. First, let’s call the house-elves and deal with them.”

Narcissa called out to the green-skinned creatures and barely had time to take a breath before they appeared. Before they could request their assignment, Lucius had cast a spell that placed all of them in a state of suspension, leaving husband and wife virtually alone in their home for the first time in years.

They proceeded to the kitchen to apply ancient and grey magic to their problem. Lucius removed a silver knife from its sheath in his dragonskin boot and thumbed the edge to test its sharpness. Satisfied that the blade did not require honing, he opened his left palm and began to recite an incantation.

“As Lord of this manor and head of the family Malfoy, I shed my blood in command to reveal all secrets.” He drew the blade across his palm, refusing the temptation to wince as it pierced his skin. As blood pooled in his hand, he squeezed to increase its flow and placed the reddened surface against the door of the cabinet. He waited ten, thirty, sixty seconds. Nothing happened. “How is this possible?” he asked his wife, stunned that the house had refused his most solemn order.

Fear flickered in her eyes, but the determined mother refused to be defeated. “I will try,” she announced, taking the blade from his grasp.

“As Lady of this manor and consort of the head of the family Malfoy, I shed my blood in command to reveal all secrets.” She repeated his command and his action, gasping once as the cool metal cut her tender flesh, the residue of her husband’s blood combining with her own. Placing her dripping wound against the cupboard, she was even more flabbergasted than her husband had been when the door sprung open at her slightest touch. “Why…?” she breathed, not understanding why it would respond to her command and not her husband’s.

He shook his head once, telling her that he had no idea what had caused the vastly different result of their identical actions. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth, as another thought passed through his head. Could it be…?

With an intake of breath, she reached in with the intention of removing one of at least a dozen boxes of chocolate truffles.

“Wait!” Lucius shouted. “Don’t touch it with your bare hands. We don’t know what curses might be contained on the box itself.”

Chagrined, she blushed and nodded. “Of course, dear. How thoughtless of me.” She raised her wand to complete the task and levitated the silver box out of the cabinet and allowed it to come to rest on the white marble countertop.

“We’ll need to remove this to a potions lab, but I think it needs to be somewhere exceptionally secure,” Lucius opined.

“I agree. The best lab I know is Severus’ old research facility at Hogwarts. Do you think that Dumbledore would consent to our use of their resources?”

“I think that it could be arranged. He’s been requesting a meeting with the ‘deep-cover informant’ for weeks. It may be time that we come out from under for our mutual benefit,” Lucius concluded. In the meantime, he stowed the purloined box of treats away in a magically sealed container and hid it in his private study. He then returned to the sitting room where the house-elves stood, unmoving. He removed the stasis spells and requested refreshments. No use in raising suspicions about why they’d been summoned, he thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Albus Dumbledore had suspected the identity of their hidden benefactor for long months, but had not been able to convince Tonks to confirm the information. She’d finally revealed that an Unbreakable Vow had been invoked, making his request moot. If he wanted to arrange a meeting, she would pass along the request but the spy would have to release her from the Vow if he finally agreed to a face-to-face conversation. Thus, when Tonks approached the former Hogwarts Headmaster with a proposal from the spy, he was both intrigued and delighted.

“He needs something from you,” Tonks had told him, “and in exchange, he’s ready to reveal himself and tell you what he’s been doing and why.”

They had arranged for the informant to come to Hogwarts under heavy glamour and virtually impenetrable security. He would be escorted by Tonks, arriving at three o’clock in the morning, and would meet only with Albus. When the short, spongy looking man had arrived in the Headmaster’s office, it had taken a full three minutes for him to remove the spells that concealed his true identity. Albus waited patiently as the man’s true visage was revealed. He smiled broadly and knowingly once Lucius Malfoy stood proudly before him.

“Lucius, I am most pleased to see you here this morning,” Albus greeted him warmly. “It seems we have much to discuss. Won’t you make yourself comfortable?” He waved an arm, causing a selection of teas and pastries to appear on a small oak table between the two armchairs in which the wizards rested.

Lucius refused all but a cup of Darjeeling tea, and sipped the hot liquid with the casual grace of a man who knew exactly what he wanted as much as what might be expected of him. “Shall I assume that you are not especially surprised to learn my identity, Albus?”

“I am not terribly surprised, Lucius, but I am extraordinarily pleased. I had dared to hope that our informant might be you.”

“Was there anything in particular that pointed your suspicions to me?” he wondered aloud, just a little concerned that he might have done something to tip his hand.

“Nothing concrete, but the quality and accuracy of the intelligence we received led me to believe it was someone in Voldemort’s inner circle. How you have managed to maintain your position while feeding us so much data has been a mystery,” the elder man acknowledged. “I am, I must confess, terribly curious as to your motivations, if I might be so bold.”

Lucius recognized this invitation to speak as the gentle challenge it was to explain his astonishing defection. “It is only prudent and appropriate that you question my loyalties, Albus. I am prepared to provide any and all proof you deem necessary to demonstrate my sincerity,” he offered. “Veritaserum, Legilimency, an Unbreakable Vow – truly anything you require, I am prepared to give.”

“Thank you, Lucius. Should I find any of those measures required, I will not be shy about asking you to submit to them. For now, though, why don’t you tell me why you turned away from Voldemort so many months ago.”

Lucius set down the delicate china cup and looked deeply into the wizened man’s eyes, encouraging him wordlessly to use Legilimency if he so desired. He felt the tickle of gentle invasion in his brain as he shared his tale. Long minutes later, he concluded his account, “So you see, my wife and I have come to recognize that the Dark Lord’s aims are not in the best interests of the wizarding world, and our son’s regrettable immersion and descent into unconscionable violence have led us to reject our former beliefs.”

Albus waited quietly, watching as Lucius struggled with whatever it was that he was holding back. The delay was not long.

“Narcissa and I have reason to believe that Draco has been manipulated, possibly under the influence of one or more potions, for an extended period of time. This is the crux of the reason for my request to meet with you, Albus.”

“Severus and I suspected as much while Draco was still here at Hogwarts, but we were unsuccessful in determining what might have had such an influence on him. I am more than willing to try again, if you think that if could salvage your son. What can I do to help your family, Lucius?”

“Narcissa and I would like to have access to Severus’ potions research lab to analyze some materials that we believe have been used to alter Draco’s behavior.”

“Have you established the origin of the materials you suspect?”

Lucius hesitated briefly, then decided it would not be in anyone’s best interest to keep things from Albus Dumbledore. He was, after all, requesting the man’s aid. “I am not sure, but I have my suspicions. If what I believe is true, Merlin help the perpetrator, because I will not be merciful.”

“I understand, Lucius, that your family means everything to you. Does your wife share your fears?”

“She is not aware that I have a likely suspect in mind. For now, I’d like to keep it that way. I’d prefer that she stay focused on the practical research.”

“Lucius, would it be safe to say that you have more to tell me?”

“Quite so.”

“Then let us roll up our sleeves and figure out how we can help each other.”

More than two hours later, the sun was rising through the stained glass windows that decorated the Headmaster’s office. Lucius had shared his wife’s desperate plan to fake her own death as a means of subverting Voldemort’s influence on her family and to find a way to reclaim Draco’s life before it was wholly forfeit. New ideas and possibilities were shared, agreements were secured, and the two men found a greater degree of respect for one another.

“I think we have made immense progress this morning, Lucius. I am most grateful for your honesty and trust in me.”

“And I, you, Albus.” The younger wizard rose and took his former professor’s offered hand. “I would ask one more favor, if I may be so bold.”

“I’m sure it would be my pleasure.”

“I think it would be advisable for us to make an Unbreakable Vow. We have shared, and will continue to share, dangerous secrets. We should protect each other and ourselves in this way,” he stated firmly.

“While I would not have asked it of you, Lucius, after the depth and detail of everything that you’ve shared today, I am happy to hear your willingness to enter such a pact. It confirms for me that my trust in you is not misplaced. If you’ll give me a moment, I will use the Floo to call Minerva to bind the promise for us.”

At Lucius’ nod of assent, he turned to summon his deputy. She would be stunned to find Lucius Malfoy in her friend’s office, he felt quite certain. The thought made him chuckle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Three months had passed, and Narcissa had, for all practical purposes, taken up residence at Hogwarts, though there were only a tiny handful of people who were privy to that fact. She and her husband, Albus, Minerva, and Poppy were the only ones aware of her presence. She’d commandeered the late Potions Master’s personal suite along with the laboratory that had been his pride and joy. To maintain secrecy whenever she had to stray from Snape’s former refuge in the dungeons, she was Disillusioned or heavily disguised.

At her husband’s urging, she had taken extreme measures to protect herself from any untoward side effects of handling either the truffles or their container. He had ordered a custom-made pair of elbow-length dragonskin gloves, a set of crystal goggles for eye protection, and an impenetrable mask to cover her nose and mouth. Lucius also insisted that she create a bubble charm surrounding her head as a secondary layer of security whenever she worked with the suspect materials. He would not take any chances with his wife’s health and safety, even to benefit their son.

Narcissa had always shown exceptional talent in creating and analyzing potions, but this concoction was vexing. The weeks of testing with little progress were wearing on her nerves. She’d been able to identify and isolate two ingredients – one a stabilizer and one an addictive – but there were at least eleven more distinct elements. None of them had responded to standard testing and analysis. It was clear that whoever had blended this concoction was exceptionally skilled, and undoubtedly devious. Narcissa had begun to investigate for masking spells which were the next possibility when ingredients failed to respond.

She’d had similar frustrations with the silver packaging in which the treats had been stored. She had identified no fewer than fourteen masking spells - an utterly astonishing finding – and she was not yet done unraveling that issue. Exactly what those spells were hiding was far from being discovered. There could be no doubt that the person or group who had created this nightmare had two aims in mind. First, they wanted to ensnare Draco and keep him in their grasp, and second, they sought to evade detection and scrutiny at minute levels. He, she, or they had thus far been wildly successful; Narcissa was determined to end that triumph with one of her own.

Narcissa had taken to meeting with Albus Dumbledore once each week to share her limited conclusions and mounting frustrations. Most castle residents assumed that the willowy woman with black hair and brown eyes was an Auror or Order member from a remote district, come to Hogwarts to consult on a problem or two. No one disabused them of their incorrect inferences. The regular meetings between Narcissa and Albus were, unfortunately, more about ideas than results. He had shared with her their early testing on all of Draco’s deliveries while he was still in school, but acknowledged that they had had even less success than she. When Albus had proposed giving her an assistant to supplement her work, she had been reticent, fearing that her anonymity would be compromised. They had settled on a solution that had Poppy Pomfrey reviewing her research notes for any errors that might have been made by the worried mother as she worked to exhaustion nearly every day.

That second set of eyes had proved useful when she noticed two calculation errors that, according to the notes, had been made at half three in the morning. The corrections led to an important breakthrough in unraveling the identity of six more ingredients, but she was still just over half-way through. At this rate, it would take another three or four months to yield useful results. She needed a break, even for a few days, to clear her mind and get some real rest. Two-hour kips were not enough to keep her thinking sharp. She would return to Malfoy Manor for a long weekend to reunite with her husband and recoup her flagging spirits and energy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lucius and Narcissa were fortunate that their son Draco was not terribly curious about his mother’s whereabouts, and that he only infrequently returned to Malfoy Manor between his raids and reconnaissance missions. This allowed Narcissa to maintain her alternate residence at Hogwarts while conducting her research. Should Draco ask, Lucius was well-prepared to fib, obfuscate, or outright lie about his mother’s current location. The fact that the Malfoys owned nine properties scattered across the continent made the likelihood of her absence relatively high. She often took refuge at one of their seaside villas.

When Draco came home on this particular Wednesday night after a brutal and bloody raid that claimed the lives of four Death Eaters along with their six Muggle victims, he was neither surprised nor expectant when he saw his mother curled up on a settee, a crystal goblet of Sauvignon Blanc in one hand and a well-worn book in the other. He acknowledged her with a brief nod and made his way to his en-suite for a long, hot shower. His black clothing may have concealed any obvious bloodstains, but the sticky, red fluid on his hands would require immediate cleaning. Regardless of his ruthlessness in battle, he was still reluctant to have his mother see the by-products of his behavior. With all the violence he had committed, there was still a shadow of someone’s son locked inside, it seemed.

The young man climbed the two flights of stairs taking two steps at a time, his long legs easily traversing the spans. He entered his heavily warded room and stripped off the thick wool cloak that draped around his shoulders and fell to his ankles. It weighed about half again as much as usual because of the blood that soaked its bottom half. When he released his grasp, it fell to the floor with a thud. Underneath, he had worn standard wizard’s robes of true black. The many buttons on the robe’s jacket were made slick by the blood on his fingers, and he struggled to release them for a moment, until his mind refocused and he cast a quick Scourgify to give his fingers better purchase. The button-fly trousers were released more easily, and he stepped out of the legs as they fell to his feet. Though not exactly clean, these garments were less bloodied because they had been somewhat protected by the long cloak. In accord with traditional Death Eater practice, he wore no undergarments except socks. These too joined the pile of fabric on the floor and he stepped into his large, black and green marbled bathroom, not taking notice of the tiny splashes of red liquid that dotted parts of his body.

There had been no female victims in this evening’s raid, so Draco had not joined in the rapes that typically punctuated their activities. He didn’t get off on fucking men. That hadn’t meant that he didn’t climax; he had, twice, as he watched one man tortured beyond survival and another as his throat was sliced open with a cutting curse. He couldn’t help it – it happened every time. It was so common that he’d begun to think of that as his sexual norm. He hadn’t been able to get an erection without some violence involved in… Merlin, he didn’t know how long.

He reached into the six-foot-square shower stall and turned on the tap, placing a hand under the stream to test the water temperature. When he was satisfied with the level of heat, he stepped in under the pulsating stream and turned his face directly into the spray, wetting his long hair in the process. It had grown a lot in the last several months, and he couldn’t be bothered to deal with it. Now that it was falling well past his collar, he figured it was time to do something about it; it just got in the way, and he didn’t fancy being a carbon copy of his father anyway. Grasping the bar of sandalwood-scented soap from its holder, he lathered it between his hands and began to scrub the sweat, grime, and blood from his body. As always, he paid particularly careful attention to his genitals. There was nothing sexual or arousing about his own touch at that moment; his penis got into some interesting places and he definitely didn’t like the idea of some disease infecting him, regardless of how easy it might be to cure with wizarding medicine. It was somehow lost on him that he could avoid that risk altogether if his behavior weren’t so aberrant. After scrubbing his hair and scalp with shampoo and rinsing thoroughly, he stepped out of the shower as he reached for the luxuriously thick bath towel from the magical warming rack. He ran it over his hair briefly, then dried his arms, torso, and legs before wrapping the slate grey fabric around his waist.

A wave of his wand removed the steam from the mirror over the sink, and he looked at his reflection critically. His eyes looked tired and dark, with blue smudges just above his cheekbones. The long hair he’d noted in the shower was shorn into a fairly traditional short gentleman’s style with another flick or two of his length of hawthorn. Draco set down the wand and shaved his light growth of blond stubble, just slightly darker than the hair on his head, with the same type of straight razor that his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him had used. He cleaned his teeth, ridding his mouth of the taste of the low-quality firewhisky that had been passed around when they’d decamped from the raid. He returned to his bedroom and stretched out on his silk-covered bed, propping himself up against the headboard with the assistance of a half dozen pillows. He crossed his legs at his ankles and let his eyes drift shut, dozing off for about an hour.

When he awakened, Draco was hungry. He’d not had a meal in at least six or seven hours. He quickly dressed in a pair of charcoal grey trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt, hand-made from the finest Egyptian cotton. Tugging on a pair of fine leather boots, he noticed that the house-elves, in their typical efficiency, had removed the stained clothes he’d left on the hardwood floor. Grabbing his wand from the bedside table where he’d left it, he opened the door that sealed his private sanctuary and made his way to the family dining room.

Since it was after ten o’clock, he’d probably need to request something be prepared for him. Family dinner service usually concluded around half eight, so any remaining food would have been discarded or consumed by the rest of the household staff. As he took a seat at the rich mahogany table, he called out for a house-elf. “Mitsy!”

“Good eves, Master Draco. What can I gets yous?”

“I’ll have a roast beef sandwich, with chips and a butterbeer.”

“Right aways, Master Draco.” The little house-elf bowed low and backed out of the room, her nose nearly scraping the floor.

When she returned less than five minutes later with his meal, Draco added to his order, “I’ll need a new box of truffles, Mitsy. Have it delivered to my room when I’ve finished here.”

The creature gulped and swallowed heavily, her eyes gone wide with fright. Missus Malfoy had issued new orders about all treats in the house; nothing was to be delivered to Master Draco’s room without her express approval. “I will checks to see,” she hedged.

“What do you mean, ‘you’ll check’?” he asked. “You’ll do as I say, or pay the consequences.” The threat was real.

“I has to checks wif Missus Malfoy. She sayses no treats unless she gives permissions.”

Rising to his feet and tossing his linen napkin to the table, Draco stalked out of the room, muttering, “We’ll see about that.”

“Mother! Mother? Where are you?” he called as he stomped through the corridor toward the last place he saw her, in the sitting room. He tugged open the closed double doors and found the room empty. He slammed the doors shut and headed for the master suite, banging on the door when he reached the sealed chamber.

Inside the bedroom, Narcissa heard Draco’s hollering and set down the brush she’d been using to bring her long blond hair to sheen. A deep feeling of dread overtook her, and she felt her throat tighten. She pushed down her fear and rose to open the door to her son. When she saw the look in his eyes, she immediately wished that she hadn’t. She also wished that she had picked up her wand from the table where it rested.

Draco reached out and grabbed her right forearm and tugging her closer to his body, effectively immobilizing her with his great size and strength advantage. “What do you mean by denying me my truffles?” he bit out through clenched teeth.

She tried not to let her fear show as she met her son’s angry glare. “Nothing, dear. It’s just that you’ve been eating a lot of sweets lately, and I wanted to balance your diet a bit.”

It was clear from his tightening grip and twitching jaw that he either did not believe her or did not take kindly to her decision about his culinary choices. “If I am old enough to kill a man for the Dark Lord, I am old enough to decide what I will eat. You will order the house-elves to deliver my truffles to my room. Now.” His voice was low, dangerous, and barely recognizable to her.

When she hesitated for the briefest moment to comply with his demand, she knew she’d made a grave error. His eyes became glassy and unfocused, and he closed his free hand into a fist. Less than a second later, that fist had made contact with his mother’s jaw, then her stomach, then her back as she attempted to twist away from his attack. He continued to pound at her tender flesh, bruising and cutting her with his knuckles and the heavy platinum signet ring he wore on his right hand. He didn’t respond to her cries of pain and barely noticed when she slumped in his arms, struggling to maintain consciousness after two blows to her head. She cried out as much as she was able, “Mitsy.”

When the house-elf appeared, Narcissa rasped, “Truffles for Draco.” She rested her head against the side of the settee where she’d fallen, vaguely grateful that he had not used his wand; she might not have survived his anger if he’d unleashed such unstable magic against her. She prayed silently that her husband would be home soon. She would need help.

Draco glanced at her battered form on the floor and without another word, left for his room, satisfied that his demands had been fulfilled. After consuming a handful of the tainted treats that Mitsy had delivered mere seconds earlier, he fell into a deep sleep. When he awakened the next morning, he wondered why his hands were so torn up and bloody. He thought he’d taken a shower the previous evening, and he had only used his wand during the raid. How curious, he thought.


	24. Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy-duty trauma and non-con sexual content in this chapter.

Another lull in conversation followed as Draco and Hermione thought about the implications of his last comment. “Well, someone obviously was able to imagine it, because they caused it to happen,” he’d said. She mulled two inferences of his pronouncement. First, there was still an unknown person or group who had targeted Draco for unknown reasons, and without information about their identities, he would continue to be at risk of succumbing to their egregious manipulations. Second, Draco was beginning to accept that his horrific behavior was not entirely his own doing.

Draco was stewing over his statement, too. Who in his life would have the ability, the opportunity, and the desire to poison him in such an insidious way? It would have to be someone with whom he had fairly regular contact, and who had easy access to his home, including everything he ate and drank. That couldn’t be more than a half dozen people, counting his parents. He shook his head in disgust and frustration, recognizing that it was probably someone to whom he and his family were extremely close. The depth of the betrayal weighed heavily on him.

The quiet, which had now stretched to nearly an hour as both were finally lost in their own thoughts, was broken by the sound of the wind howling outside the windows and a reverberating crack followed immediately by the sound of something crashing to the ground. Draco rose to investigate, and opened the front door to find that a fifteen-foot long, six-inch thick branch had fallen across the walkway that led to the cottage’s front porch. It was also snowing again, quite heavily. They were in for another very cold night. He pushed the front door closed, fighting against the force of the gale trying to keep it open. He turned to inform Hermione of the worsening conditions.

“I know, it looks and sounds pretty brutal out there,” she beat him to the punch. “What was that noise?”

“A huge branch fell across the walkway. It didn’t do any other damage that I can tell, but for something that big to come down, this is going to be one wicked storm,” he observed.

“Great,” she whined. “If we had our wands, we could do a charm to surround the house, or at least take temperature and pressure readings. We have no idea how bad this will be or how long it will last.”

“At the rate it’s coming down, it wouldn’t surprise me to see a storm about double the snow that we had last night,” he stated, rubbing his hands along his arms to warm them.

“Do we have enough wood inside the house for the night?”

He nodded and told her, “While you were sleeping this afternoon, I brought in a good couple of armfuls and put it in the cabinet. We’ll have enough till morning, anyway. In the meantime, though, the wood that‘s left on the porch will get wet from the snow. That will make it harder to burn, won’t it?”

“Don’t worry about that, Draco,” she placated. “From what I’ve seen, it’s really old wood, so it’s very dry internally. The snow won’t really penetrate the layers; it’ll just steam off as long as we put it into a hot fire.”

“Oh, well that’s good, I guess.”

“Yes, it is. You shouldn’t have to worry about going out in the storm, at least till morning.”

He walked into the kitchen. “I’m getting some water. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine for now. I just wish that whoever put the food in the house had thought to include some tea,” she grumbled.

“A nice hot cuppa would be good right now,” he agreed as he returned, having consumed his fifth glass of water for the evening.

“If you could have anything at all to eat or drink right now, what would it be?” she asked, mostly to get conversation going.

“Besides chocolate?” he grinned, looking at her from under his fringe.

“Sure, besides chocolate.”

“That’s a tough one. Maybe roast lamb,” he offered, “with mint jelly, honey-glazed carrots, and jacket potatoes.”

“Not something I’d eat every day, but that does sound yummy,” she agreed. “I’d have barbecued pork ribs, the kind you make on the grill that get all sticky with sauce so you have to lick your fingers off every two or three minutes. I’ll have that with chips and sliced tomatoes, if you please.”

“Is that a Muggle dish? I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”

“You haven’t?” she gaped. “You don’t know what you’re missing!”

“Precisely.”

“The meat gets so tender that it just falls off the bone, and the sauce gets all caramelized and gooey,” she enthused.

“Sounds barbaric to me. Who ever heard of eating things with your fingers, right off the bone?” he sniffed.

“Well, how do you eat a chicken leg? It really isn’t any different from that,” she challenged.

“I eat a chicken leg like any other civilized person would, by cutting the meat off the center bone with my knife and fork,” he retorted.

“Then you miss half the meat and all the fun.”

“Fun? What’s fun about eating things off an animal’s skeleton?” he argued.

“Because you can lick the juice off your fingers. It’s the yummiest part.”

“Believe me, there are other things that are much more fun to lick off,” he smirked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to scold him for his cheek, huffing with indignation. “Why do boys always have to turn everything into something sexual?”

“Look who’s calling the kettle black. I said nothing about sex. I was talking about icing on cakes or sweet cream on pudding. Who’s the one with the filthy mind here, Granger?” he taunted imperiously, triumphant that he’d got one over on her.

She sputtered and spat, but technically, he was right. She was the one who had leapt to the conclusion, regardless that she had been spurred on to it by his leering smirk. She was certain that her entire body was flushed crimson with mortification. Her skin felt hot, and there was no doubt that her blood was bubbling in her veins.

Draco looked at her and laughed heartily. “You should see the look on your face, Granger. It’s priceless. What I wouldn’t give for a camera right now!”

“Prat,” she muttered, tossing another pillow at her tormentor.

“You walked right into it, Granger. How could I resist?”

“Easily, if you had any sense,” she pouted.

“Relax, Granger, it’s not that big a deal,” he told her, waving a hand as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “Besides, you were right in the first place,” he confessed.

“Oh! You!” she accused, now more exasperated than embarrassed.

“The atmosphere is just so… heavy. I thought we could do with a little laugh.”

“At my expense, no less.”

“Oh, come on. Like I haven’t been humiliated ten times over since we got here. Just evening up the score a little,” he grinned in what she was sure he thought was a winning, engaging way.

“Whatever you say, Malfoy. I’m just glad to know I was right in the first place,” she answered haughtily.

“Fine, you win,” he acquiesced. “Spoil sport.”

“I’m just trying to protect whatever dignity I have left, Malfoy.”

“You and I, Granger, are way past worrying about dignity,” Draco observed.

“Hunh. I suppose you have a point there,” she acknowledged.

“Of course, I may have no shame left, but at least I’m still a prat,” he avowed self-effacingly.

Hermione just shook her head, as annoyed as she was amused, but grateful that they’d at least come to some kind of peace, however uneasy it might be. She watched as Draco dropped tiredly into the armchair beside the hearth after having restocked the fireplace, the bark of the new logs catching quickly and adding a brighter glow to the room.

The extra warmth in the room was in stark contrast to the dramatically increasing howl of the wind against the windows; they were rattling in their frames, telling the storm’s violent story. Draco shuddered once, having felt a draft creep in from an unseen crevice. He noticed that Hermione had drawn the thin blanket up to her chin and snuggled more deeply into the sofa. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“Getting tired?” she asked.

“I guess so. It’s been a rough couple of days,” he noted, meeting her eyes purposefully. “I’d imagine you wouldn’t dispute that.”

“Not in the least,” she agreed.

“How about you?”

“What?” she started, having been lost in her own musings for a moment.

“Are you tired, too?” he rephrased.

“Not exhausted, no. But I doubt it would take long for me to fall asleep if I closed my eyes and surrendered to a pillow,” she quipped.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said, heading to the loo to relieve his strained bladder. She heard the tell-tale flush, then the rush of the faucet, and a moment later he was off to the kitchen for another glass of water.

“Draco, I’ve been thinking,” she began.

“Alert the media!” he teased.

“Shut it. I’m being serious here,” she scolded.

“Sorry. My natural wit and sarcasm seem to be aching to make an appearance,” he explained. “Can’t seem to help myself.” His wry grin told her that there was no threat or cruelty in his commentary.

Hermione rolled her eyes – again – and flicked her gaze to the chair, encouraging him silently to have a seat. He caught her hint and obliged.

“What were you thinking about, Granger?”

“Our sleeping arrangements for the night.”

“Ah. Yes. I guess it’s time we deal with that, isn’t it?” he prompted.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. It doesn’t appear to me that you’ve had any violent urges or tendencies in several hours. The only issues that have been apparent are your headaches when you try to remember things, and your withdrawal symptoms. Am I correct? Is there anything going on that you’ve not told me?” she asked, looking straight into his steel-colored eyes in an attempt to gauge his truthfulness.

“Granger, I’ve been more honest with you in the last twelve hours than I have with anyone in the sum total of my conscious memory.”

She grunted a mirthless laugh and nodded her assent for him to continue.

“I’ve not withheld anything from you, and I’ve told you everything that I understand – and don’t – about what’s been happening to me. If you don’t know it in this moment, then I don’t either.”

“I…I believe you, Draco. Our discussions have been nothing but brutally blunt. I’d be lying if I said I trusted you even moderately, but I think you have been as honest with me as you are capable of being, considering what you don’t know about how the potions or spells have really affected you.”

He waited for her to continue, desperately curious about where she was headed with this extended preamble. He guessed she was trying to delay the inevitable in sharing with him her conclusion.

“I’ve decided,” she breathed deeply in a pause, “that we will share the bed tonight, with a couple of conditions.”

He concluded that keeping his mouth shut at the moment was the most prudent course, so again he waited for her to speak. He met her eyes once more.

“First, we will both remain fully clothed, except for shoes.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, when I get into the bed, I want at least one layer of sheet or blanket between us.”

“Fine.”

“Third, you will not touch me in any way.”

“Not intentionally.”

“Not at all, Malfoy.”

“Granger, I can’t control whether I roll over in my sleep. I might accidentally bump into you, or toss my arm so that it touches you. For that matter, you could be the one who bumps into me,” he argued, not unreasonably.

“Well, I suppose that’s technically true. But do your best to stay on your own side of the bed.”

“I promise.”

“One final thing, Malfoy.”

“What’s that?”

“If for some reason I get, um, uncomfortable with your presence during the night, I would ask that you do the gentlemanly thing and leave the room.”

“I suppose that’s fair, as long as you don’t kick me out just because I snore,” he assented, adding just the tiniest bit of humor.

“If you’re not any louder than Ginny, we’ll be alright,” she offered.

“Since I have no frame of reference, I guess I’ll need to trust your judgment on that one, Granger.”

“That you will, Malfoy,” she replied. “Now, how about we get organized? I feel like I’m starting to fade, so if you’d help me to the bathroom, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he agreed, stepping to her side to lift her from the sofa.

“I’d like to try to stand again, I think. Could you just help me get to my feet first?”

“Whatever you want, if you think you’re strong enough.”

“I won’t know until I try, but I do feel a little better,” she admitted.

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it,” he told her, genuinely.

Draco wrapped his arms around her back, hooking them through her armpits to lift her. He waited until she found purchase with her feet, both of them aware and slightly uncomfortable at the other’s proximity. For some reason, it felt different and more intimate than being lifted, almost like an embrace. “Okay? Do you want to try a step or two?”

She nodded, feeling that her knees and hips were solidly aligned. Putting one foot ahead of the other, she moved about three feet with Draco supporting her while stepping backwards. “Oooh, feeling a little lightheaded,” she mumbled.

Draco shifted immediately, bringing one arm under her knees and sweeping her up into his arms with a speed she hadn’t expected. “I’ve got you.”

Hermione nodded again, resting her head lightly against his chest. “I’m sorry, I thought I was ready.”

“No problem, Granger. I’ll carry you to the loo and get you settled, then you can call me back when you want me to put you in bed.”

“That’s good. Fine.”

In five long strides, Draco had entered the bathroom and settled Hermione near the toilet. He avoided eye contact, but asked the question, “Do you need my help with your pants?”

“I think I can handle it if you just help me sit. I can shimmy them off,” she assured him.

“Okay, if you think so.”

“Mmmhmm. I’ll be fine. I’ll need your help to stand to wash my hands after, though.”

“Sure. Just call out when you’re done.” He settled her in place and left to give her some privacy, hearing the snick of the catch as he closed the door behind him.

Rather than wait just outside the door, he went back to the sitting room and stoked the fireplace with two more large logs, hoping that would be sufficient for the night. He remembered then about all the water he’d consumed, and had no doubt that he’d have to get up in the middle of the night to relieve himself; he’d check the status of the fire then.

He grabbed the blanket that Hermione had left on the sofa and went into the bedroom to add it to the pile of linens along with the cloak that he’d draped over the chair hours earlier. The bedroom was quite chilly, but would probably be tolerable once they got under the blankets, he hoped. An old-fashioned bed warmer would even be welcome on a night like this. Or a warming charm. Once again, he lamented the loss of his wand.

He considered turning down the bed, but thought better of it, deciding it would be more prudent to keep the sheets as warm as possible rather than expose them to the cold air. He heard the toilet flush a moment later, and waited a few more seconds for Hermione’s voice to ring out.

“Draco!” she called.

“Be right there.”

He opened the door to find her seated, once again fully clothed, on the toilet and awaiting his aid to move to the sink. Two steps and one scoop later had her standing, supported lightly by him, against the counter.

Hermione turned on the tap, both hot and cold by force of habit, and cleaned her hands. “What I wouldn’t give for a toothbrush,” she moaned.

“I’m with you there, Granger. I’ll make a deal with you – I won’t breathe on you if you don’t breathe on me,” he teased.

Her lips tightened into something that resembled a smile; it was as if she didn’t want to show her teeth. “Hey, in all those linens, was there a small washcloth or something?”

“I don’t remember any washcloths, but I think there was a small hand towel. Why?” he wondered.

“If you can manage to tear it in half somehow, we could wet it and have something to scrub against teeth and gums. It would be better than nothing.”

“That’s not a horrible idea, Granger. Do you think you can balance here for just a minute while I dash to the other bathroom?”

At her nod, he sped to the smaller en-suite and retrieved the item he’d remembered. It was pretty worn, which would make it relatively easy to rend.

He reentered the bath where Hermione waited for him with the two halves held up for her inspection. “Take your pick, white or white?”

She smirked and reached for the cloth in his right hand. “Thanks.” After wetting the fabric and wringing out the excess water, Hermione wrapped it around her forefinger and scrubbed it along her teeth and gums, then scooped a handful of cold water into her mouth as a make-shift rinse.

“That’s a little better,” she pronounced.

“I’m sure it is. I’ll do the same once I get you settled in the bed,” he noted.

“I’m ready.”

He bent to tuck an arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back, lifting her without strain, and set her down a few steps later beside the bed. “I’ll just turn down the blankets so you can get in.”

Draco helped her to settle in as comfortably as she was able, and gave her an extra pillow. “For your legs, if you still want to elevate them a little,” he explained.

“Thanks, that couldn’t hurt.”

“Okay. I’m going to go get cleaned up, and I’ll be back in a moment. Need anything else when I come back?” he questioned.

“No, I think I’m good.”

He nodded and went to tend to his needs in the bathroom, leaving her to snuggle in to the sheets and blankets.

When he returned about ten minutes later, she was clearly on the cusp of sleep, but mumbled a “G’night” as he sat on the side of the bed. True to his agreement, he made sure that a layer of sheets separated them, and he turned on his side facing away from the woman who would share the room with him for the night. Five minutes later, Draco was deeply slumbering while the wind howled and the snow piled up outside.

_The meeting began fifteen minutes later than scheduled, due to the late arrival of two senior Aurors who had escorted a captured Death Eater to a holding cell in Leeds, pending his transfer to Azkaban. The expected contingent of ten was now present, each participant with an important part to play in the upcoming offensive. Now that the last Horcrux – save Nagini – had been located and destroyed, they were ready to try to put an end to this senseless, devastating conflict once and for all._

_Hermione had begged to be part of this planning meeting; her role in the war had been strategic and focused almost solely on the Horcrux destruction mission, and now she was itching to get into the final battle planning. It wasn’t that she’d felt unimportant in her assignment – she knew its critical value – but she wanted to be able to say she’d truly been part of the fight. This was her chance._

_The meeting had been convened for all of twenty minutes when the property that they’d believed unplottable and the door that they’d thought so securely warded had been breached by eight Death Eaters. How they had discovered their location was a complete mystery, but one that would have to go unsolved. For the moment, they were fighting for their lives. The ruthlessness of the raiding party was evident when they started their attack with Avada Kedavra spells, immediately killing four of the meeting participants in the close-quarter venue. The surviving Light officers fought back with enough force to dispatch two of their attackers, but while they were now evenly matched in numbers, they were not quite as ruthless and thus less likely to use Unforgiveable, deadly spells, regardless of the restrictions having been lifted by the Ministry-in-Exile for soldiers in battle. The only thing that saved the remaining group members was the pronouncement by one of the Death Eaters, obviously someone who was a leader of this team._

_“Bind and silence them. These are senior strategists. We need some of them alive,” he’d shouted._

_Just moments later, the six survivors had been stripped of their wands, captured, and transported to a cold, damp, and pitch-dark dungeon. They were separated into individual cells; this was undoubtedly a substantial facility. One by one, each of them was removed to an interrogation room and subjected to intense questioning, torture, and beatings. They had all been trained to withstand such treatment and had, thus far, successfully resisted their captors’ efforts to uncover the Order’s next moves._

_It had been two days since they’d been brought to this facility, and each of them had been interrogated at least three times. It was clear that their captors were growing frustrated and impatient. The meager rations they’d been served on the first day had been limited to water now, and the violence level in their sessions had amped up significantly. It appeared they did not have access to a supply of Veritaserum, as it had not been used. The other alternative – that they simply enjoyed torturing the information out of their captives – was too ridiculous to entertain, given the time constraints that the final stages of war had placed on all of them._

_Hermione Granger had survived the initial battle, and had been questioned – by former year-mate Draco Malfoy, no less – three times without revealing any useful intelligence. It helped that the group had only begun their discussion of the final offensive they’d gathered to plan; there really wasn’t much to tell. On the morning of the third day, as near as she could tell, Draco came to her cell one more time, intent on getting her to talk, or she’d feel his wrath._

_“Let’s go, Mudblood. You and I have some chatting to do,” he sneered, grabbing her by the arm and tugging so hard she feared it might have dislocated. Despite the fact that she’d been beaten once and tortured with the Cruciatus twice already, Hermione was not in terrible condition at the moment. One of the hooded women who’d brought them food had healed her wounds and given her a potion that minimized some of the effects of Draco’s powerful “Crucio.” She didn’t know why. Maybe they didn’t want to kill them until they were absolutely certain they couldn’t pry any information out of them; maybe they needed to prove their captives were still alive as part of some extortion or prisoner exchange scheme. Hermione had no idea, but she was glad of the respite. She had a sinking feeling that her reprieve was not to last._

_Draco wrenched her arm again, and tossed her into a room that she’d seen before, during her second interrogation. This chamber had no iron bars, just four stone walls broken only by a thick wooden door. It was many yards away from the main corridor of cells, and any screaming she might do here would not be heard. She fell heavily against the floor, bruising her ribs and shoulder; she could do nothing to break her fall with her wrists bound tightly behind her back. She tried not to cry out, refusing to fuel Malfoy’s bloodlust._

_“Not so much a know-it-all now, Mudblood. Filthy piece of scum,” he taunted, kicking at her already injured ribs, causing her to wheeze involuntarily as air rushed out of her lungs. “If you won’t tell me what I want to know, you will pay the price. And it will be dear.” He chuckled, and it sounded anything but funny. He knelt on one knee, drawing his face within inches of hers. “Are you ready to talk, Mudblood?”_

_“I have nothing to tell you, Malfoy.”_

_“Is that your final answer, Mudblood?” he jeered, seemingly enjoying the taunt. She wondered if he wasn’t glad that the information he wanted was not forthcoming._

_“You know it is, Malfoy.”_

_“Then I guess it’s time I really teach you a lesson about what happens to little Mudbloods who don’t do as they’re told. Silencio! Evanesco!”_

_She gasped soundlessly as her clothing vanished before her eyes. She felt sick to her stomach, anticipating what was likely to happen; they’d not tried this tactic on her yet, but she always knew it was a possibility. She tried to close her eyes, not wanting to see what was coming, but Draco Malfoy had other things in mind. He cast a spell that forced her eyes to remain open, seeing, and aware. He planned for her to witness her own defilement at his hands._

_Her eyes filled with tears, and she mouthed, “No, Malfoy, please.” Of course, her words were not heard, and though they were plain enough to understand, went ignored by the man who was so clearly intent on “punishing” her._

_His own clothing disappeared in a matter of seconds as he quickly tore the garments from his own body. She was stunned to see how erect, how red and angry, he was. “Oh, Merlin,” she thought, “he gets off on this. I’m in deep shit now.”_

_Draco had freed her hands because their position behind her back made it harder for him to gain the leverage he wanted, but immediately bound them again in front of her body. He wasn’t at all concerned that he couldn’t control her, having such a substantial height and weight advantage over her. He tossed his wand aside in favor of a more hands-on approach, and grasped both of her small hands in one of his, stretching them up over her head. He wasn’t even really concerned that she might manage to get in a scratch or two; that would stoke his anger and make his experience more… intense. He would punish her as she deserved, and take his pleasure from it._

_He started by pummeling her with closed fists wherever he could reach on her squirming, twisting body. Stomach, face, hips, legs, breasts. Her mouth was open in a raw expression of pain, and it made him even harder. He bit her, drawing blood in several places. Shoulder, nipples, wrist, tongue. The last swelled immediately as he tasted her blood in his mouth. He spat it out, but again it spurred his bloodlust on. His legs – his knees – pinned hers to the floor no matter how much she tried to twist and kick. He split his knees apart, pushing hers wide with the action. He levered his hips and pushed viciously into her dry, unwilling vagina, tearing both the entrance and the canal with the ferocity of his thrust. She felt the rip of her tender skin, and screamed silently at the incredible agony. He didn’t care; he was so intent on his end. He thrust again, and again, and again, filling her with his thick, hot length, sheathing it to the hilt. One hand had wrapped around her throat and he squeezed, not hard enough to kill her, yet, but enough to leave the mark of his hand and to cause her vision to dim. There was still no mercy in his movement. He sped on, now holding her arms high above her head again as he tore her apart over and over, his way slickened by the volume of blood that now coated his penis and flowed freely from her injury. He latched on to her right breast with his mouth and bit down hard as two more brutal strokes took him to a shuddering climax, buttocks clenching as he spilled his seed deep inside her._

_He rolled off, apparently lost for a moment in his own fog of euphoria. Hermione, drifting in and out of consciousness, didn’t hear the door open behind them, but did note the shocked intake of breath from the woman who’d entered the room. “Oh, Merlin, no,” she whispered, and cast a spell at the girl bleeding on the floor. “Finite Incantatem.”_

_“We can’t wait. Now!” another voice said, and a black cloak fluttered down to cover the spent man and his victim._

“Noooo!” she screamed at full volume, waking him in an instant.

“What? What happened?” he asked, his voice confused and thick with sleep.

“Noooo!” she screamed again, tears coursing down her cheeks.

As he looked at her, it seemed that maybe she wasn’t awake. She was dreaming. Obviously it was a nightmare, and a bad one at that. Oh Merlin, he thought, is she dreaming about what happened? About when I raped her? What do I do? Shit! What do I do? He wrestled with whether to wake her or let her be. Would she interpret him waking her as an attack?

The decision was taken from him mere seconds later when Hermione’s eye flashed open to meet his own. It would have been difficult for an observer to tell whose were more frightened.

“You!?” she shrieked, scrambling away on the bed so much that he feared she might go over the edge. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to grasp her arm, but knew immediately that it would only make the situation worse. Just the look in his eyes that said he’d considered the possibility set her off, and she let loose a blood-curdling scream that might have cracked crystal, had there been any present in their forest hideaway. “Aaaahhhh! Noooo!”

“Wait, Hermione, please. I’m not going to hurt you,” his voice shook with regret and pleading.

“You! You raped me! Don’t touch me! Get out!” Terror was evident on her face and in her body. She had curled up tightly into a protective ball, eyes wide and staring. She rocked back and forth and hugged her knees to her chest. Even though she was looking at him, she didn’t seem to really see Draco. It was almost as if she was looking through him, at the image she’d last seen in her nightmare – her memory – of his assault.

Thinking that it would probably be a good idea to not be in the same bed with her for the moment, Draco slowly and quietly lifted the linens and placed his feet on the floor. He would back away, he thought, and give her time to recover from the traumatizing dream that had shocked her into wakefulness.

“It’s alright, Hermione. I’m leaving you alone. I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly, as if to say “Are you nuts?” and went back to rocking, a blank gaze now her only expression. She was murmuring, “No, let this be a dream. This can’t be real. Please, Merlin, no.” Another shriek of “Noooo!” rent the air seconds later as she fully came to terms with the fact that her dream was the memory of the events immediately preceding their arrival at the remote cottage.

While Hermione seemed to be stuck in that living nightmare, Draco was in the midst of a crisis of his own. Despair at having caused someone such deep anguish was a new feeling, and one he could not say he relished. His gut was churning as he thought about the pure panic he’d seen on her face and heard in her screams. I caused that, he thought. I did that to her. He groaned deeply, unfathomable shame bubbling up in his throat. He sunk to his knees in front of the hearth and folded over onto himself until his forehead touched the floor.

She would carry the burden of that horrible experience for her entire life. And he would carry the burden having been the cause of her pain. He wondered, How many others? He would probably never know. He couldn’t bear to know. How many lives have I ruined? How many lives have I ended? What kind of beast does this? Why should I walk the earth while they lie in their graves – or worse – didn’t even receive that small dignity because of my brutality and callousness? It hadn’t even registered that he was sobbing until he couldn’t breathe through his bitter tears. “I’m so sorry, Granger, so desperately sorry. I can’t believe that I did that to you, that I’ve reduced you to this,” he whispered to the night. “I wish I’d never been born. I wish I could die. I deserve it after what I’ve done.”

 _Maybe that’s it,_ he thought, _the solution that puts everything right. I could just walk out into the storm, lie down in the snow, and never wake up again. She would never have to look at me again and know that the person who had raped her still walked free. I wouldn’t have to look at her and live with what I’ve done to her, and Merlin knows how many others. I don’t know how I can ever live with what I done and what I’ve become._

He rose to his knees and swiped his sleeve across his face, drying his tears and wiping his nose, a grim resolve overtaking his shame. Draco Malfoy may have taken the selfish, cowardly route for most of his life, but tonight he would do something that would put another person’s needs before his own. With more determination than he could ever recall, he took to his feet and moved briskly toward the cottage’s front door. He grasped the handle, hesitating for only a fraction of a second. As he turned the knob and wrenched the door open, he heard yet another sob and whimper come from the bedroom where his victim had relived her ordeal.

Was she calling for him? Did she need him? Was it more cowardly to stay, or to go? He would let her decide.

“Draco.”


	25. Requiem

_**One Year and Seven Months Ago** _

“This is much more difficult than I ever thought it would be, Narcissa,” Lucius complained. “All these weeks with no contact with you has made it feel like you really were dead and buried.” He had a tight grip on her hands, and it seemed that he never intended to release them. His eyes were suspiciously misty.

“I know it’s been hard on you, love. It’s been awful for me too, cooped up either here at Andy’s or in the dungeons at Hogwarts, but it will be worth it in the end. You’ll see,” she soothed, pulling her husband into her arms. She’d only seen him so emotional three times before in the twenty-five years they’d known each other. The first had been the first time they’d really made love rather than simply fulfilling marital obligations. The second had been the day Draco was born. The third had been when that same boy had beaten his mother to a bloody pulp. She wondered briefly what he’d been like at her memorial service; oh, to have been a fly on that wall – for any number of reasons. “It would have been too dangerous for us to meet before now.”

“I know you’re right, but that doesn’t make this forced separation any more palatable. It’s hard to believe that it has already been four months since your ‘death’ was mourned at the Manor,” he recalled. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the formal three-day mourning period, and snorted a grim laugh. “You would have been gratified to see how many people came to pay their respects.”

“Did Draco come?” she wondered, her curiosity winning out over her reluctance to dredge up a sore subject.

“Yes, he did, and it was all I could do to stop myself from strangling him with my bare hands,” he snipped out through grinding jaws.

“Lucius, we’ll not have this argument again. He doesn’t remember what happened, and I never want him to know. What purpose would it serve?”

“So that I have a reason to beat the crap out of him.”

“Well, it was obviously an… unpleasant experience, but you found me so quickly that I didn’t suffer for more than a few minutes. You missed your calling, Lucius. You should have been a Healer,” Narcissa quipped, hoping to divert his attention from his misplaced anger at their son.

“That’s not the point. He was violent with you, his own mother, over chocolates, of all things. If I hadn’t been more worried about you that night, I would likely have killed him.”

“And how would that have been an acceptable outcome? He is our son, Lucius, and he’s sick. That incident made it thoroughly plain that we were right about the truffles having been tainted. It was a blessing in disguise.”

“I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forgive him for what he did to you.” He looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

She placed her delicate hand on his cheek and drew his gaze back to hers. “Lucius, I already have, and I wish you could let it go. I’m thoroughly convinced he was not, and is not, in his right mind or in control of his own actions. I’m getting so much closer to discovering what’s in the truffles; I just know it. I feel confident that we will find a way to reverse the damage that’s been done to our boy.”

“But what he did to you…”

She stopped him with a raised brow and a pointed glare. “He will never know. Do you think that he’d be able to live with himself? I don’t. I will not put that guilt on him when I feel certain it was not his fault. I am his mother, and I know the sensitive child that he was before he was exposed to all this darkness. I have to believe that the little boy who loved us so much is still buried in him somewhere. I will do everything in my power to ensure that what’s happened does not consume him. I can’t do it without your support, Lucius, so again I beg of you, please let it go.”

Lucius sighed deeply in frustration. He would not be able to sway her on this, regardless of how angry he was with his son. She had a point in noting that the boy was likely not in control of his own actions, but what Draco had done was utterly inexcusable. How could he reconcile the two opposing viewpoints? He knew his son’s reputation as a mechanical killer and torturer among the Death Eater ranks; he never dreamed that those tendencies would have been used against his own family. This was not an argument that would be settled today, however.

“When will you return to Hogwarts?” he wondered, glancing around the Tonks’ comfortable sitting room.

“The day after tomorrow. Andy and Ted will be back tomorrow evening, and Nymphadora will accompany me to the castle in the early morning hours.”

“So we have tonight completely alone?”

“Yes, dear. Why?”

“It has been four very long months, mon coeur. Will you let me make love to you?”

Her laughter bubbled as he nibbled at her neck. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, cher.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had been two weeks since Narcissa’s reunion with her husband and she had been obsessed the entire time with pinpointing the remaining three ingredients in Draco’s truffles. Progress had been slow, because her analysis had shown that the potion was not found in any standard recipe compilation, including the numerous dark magic texts found exclusively in the Malfoy and Black family libraries. This had been a custom-made concoction, ensuring that its ingredients, their proportions, and their ultimate purpose were a mystery to anyone but the creator.

Narcissa was motivated, though, by her love for her family and her dogged determination to solve this problem. In that, Albus Dumbledore had told her that she was very much like a certain curly-haired Gryffindor. Having met that young woman a couple of times at her sister’s home, Mrs. Malfoy could not disagree. The girl was relentless, a quality the youngest of the Black sisters admired immensely.

As Narcissa’s scrutiny began to yield results, she began to tackle the broader questions inherent in the problem. Who would have the technical ability to execute such a plan? Who would have the motivation, and what would that be? How would they have been able to circumvent the elaborate security measures that were in place at the Malfoy estate? Why Draco? The evidence was daunting, and it was making her heartsick. She didn’t want to believe how the details were adding up, but every question seemed to yield the same answers: Her sister Bellatrix and brother-in-law Rodolphus were among the prime suspects.

She’d begun to catalogue her findings, and had developed an elaborate matrix that covered the two large blackboards in the late Severus Snape’s personal laboratory. Narcissa was methodical and meticulous. She felt highly confident that she’d made no errors; every item had been checked at least four times to ensure both factual accuracy and conclusions drawn.

She was still missing something, though, besides the final three unidentified ingredients, never mind the spells that were undoubtedly attached to the packaging. Her success on that front had been substantially less than desired; there were still at least two more layers of shielding she’d been unable to penetrate. The biggest unanswered question, assuming that her sister and brother-in-law were involved, was their motivation. Why had they done this to Draco? She was no closer to that answer than she’d been six months ago. Maybe it was time to bring in another set of eyes.

That thought led her to the office of former Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore one more time. Her usual disguise and “notice-me-not” charms were firmly in place as she spoke the password to gain entrance to the wizard’s inner sanctum. She nearly turned around on the steps when she heard that the elder man was in conversation with another person, not wishing to test her alternate persona any more than necessary. It was quite a shock when she heard her name – her real name – spoken by Dumbledore’s visitor. The shock turned immediately to delight when she heard enough of the other man’s voice to confirm that it was her husband with whom he was meeting. She resumed her path on the stairway.

“Ah, here she is,” Albus noted.

Both men rose as Narcissa entered the room, Lucius opening his arms in invitation of an embrace. He pulled her close, shutting his eyes and burying his face in her neck. “I’ve missed you so,” he whispered.

That he would be so demonstrative with a witness in the room stunned her, but she did not pull away. There was also something decidedly odd about her husband holding this other version of her.

Albus cleared his throat, a not-so-subtle reminder to the couple that they were not alone, and waited a moment until he had their undivided attention. “I understand that you’ve made more progress in your analysis, Narcissa.”

“Yes, Albus, that’s true, but I think I could use some help to make further strides. I have gathered so much data, but I feel strongly that I’m missing something. Would you be willing to assist me in a review of my findings?”

“I’d be happy to help in any way you think would be helpful, my dear,” he assured her.

“That would be most welcome.” Narcissa sighed with relief, believing that her roadblock might soon be lifted.

“May I assume that you would like some time with your husband, Narcissa?”

A wry smile split Lucius’ face and his wife tore her gaze away from him to answer their protector. “You assume correctly, Albus.”

“Well, then, why don’t you retire for the evening and we’ll get started on our project in the morning, hmmm?”

“A fine idea, Albus,” Lucius agreed, never taking his eyes off the strange exterior appearance presented by the woman he knew to be his wife. “Is there a secure passage to the dungeons? As you well know, it would be…inappropriate for me to be seen in the castle,” he stated, the obvious problems not needing to be spoken.

“Of course, allow me to escort you,” Dumbledore offered.

_Three Hours Later_

Narcissa, her disguises long discarded, lay snuggled in Lucius’ embrace with her thoughts whirring. She grinned as she heard him murmur and snore lightly in his slumber. Reluctant as she was to wake her husband from his rest, there was much to discuss before he would need to leave her in the pre-dawn hours. She reached up to stroke his cheek, hearing the echo of a rasp as her fingers brushed against his light stubble. “Lucius,” she whispered.

“Hmm? Pardon?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“It’s almost half four; you’ll need to leave soon.”

“I’m up,” he replied, but his eyes remained firmly closed and his arms refused to relinquish the soft, warm woman they enfolded.

The amusement in her voice was unmistakable as she answered. “So I see. We need to talk about something before you go, cher.”

With a deep-chested rumble, the sleepy and sated wizard shifted so that his wife’s body was now tugged up to drape across his torso. “What would you like to discuss, ma coeur?”

“I have reached some troubling conclusions about who may be behind Draco’s addiction to those abhorrent truffles.”

That was enough to both bring the man fully awake and to settle an uncomfortable chill upon the warm afterglow in which he’d been basking. “I have my own thoughts on that subject, too, but I’d love to hear yours first.”

“I hate to believe it, but I suspect that either my sister or her husband may have deep involvement in this terrible scheme.”

Lucius’ sigh was one of resignation and concurrence. “I’ve thought the same for several weeks. In fact, I'd wager that they are acting together. I’ve been actively looking for proof, but without success thus far.”

“That’s been my challenge as well, and of course I’ve been severely limited by my self-imposed exile,” she acknowledged.

“What in your research has led you to this suspicion?” he wondered, curious whether she had noted the same things he had, or had found other clues he might have missed.

“That’s the problem. There has been nothing concrete. I’ve been thinking mostly about who would have the ability, the access, and the cunning to pull off a scheme of this duration and complexity, and my sister fits the bill in every case. I also remember how anxious she was to have Draco join the Dark Lord’s service, which could count as motive. The one thing that I don’t understand is why she would do something that would so fundamentally and drastically change her own nephew’s basic nature.”

“You give your sister too much credit for humanity, Narcissa. She has never once hesitated to behave as brutally and ruthlessly as the Dark Lord himself when it comes to achieving her aims.” He hesitated briefly as he recalled the memory of a conversation years earlier with his brother-in-law. “I think the bottom line may have been revenge against me for being reluctant to commit Draco to become a Death Eater a little more than a year before he was actually branded with the Mark. You may remember that Rodolphus came to me when Draco was still just fourteen years old, trying to force me to allow him to be enlisted, and I refused because I thought he was too young. You may also recall the huge row you and I had about it.”

“I do. That was when I reunited with Andy.”

“Rodolphus was livid that I had refused his intimidating suggestion. I think that he was embarrassed to admit his failure to the Dark Lord, and he and Bella decided to take matters into their own hands. This was as much an attack against us as it was a manipulation of Draco. He was used for their purposes as a way to punish us for our lack of enthusiasm in giving our son over to the Dark Lord.”

“Regardless of why she – or they – did it, I will not let this stand unanswered. We need to find proof, and then we need to make them pay for what they’ve done to our family,” Narcissa vowed.

Lucius disentangled his limbs from hers and propped himself up on his elbows in the narrow bed. “You’ll not have an argument from me on that count. They will pay dearly, if I have anything to say about it. I do have an idea about how to gain some evidence, but it’s not entirely legal. You may be able to help me on that, if you’re willing to take a little risk.”

“Did you really think you needed to ask, Lucius?” she teased, one eyebrow raised in an eerie reflection of her son’s characteristic pose.

“Good. Then we’ll need to raid the cabinets for a few ingredients before I leave.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Three Weeks Later_

Hermione Granger had been working for more months than she could remember on this one problem. Five Horcruxes had been located and destroyed. The Horcrux that they were certain would be found inside Voldemort’s familiar, Nagini, would not be accessible until a final confrontation. That left one solitary piece of the madman’s soul unidentified, and thus, it’s location unknown. Until today, Hermione thought, at least I know what it is, if not where to find it.

The Order’s deep cover informant had come through once again, and had provided enough clues and insight to confirm that the last Horcrux had indeed belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw as suspected and chances were about ninety-nine and a half percent that it had been the diadem she wore in the formal portrait that hung in the former Ravenclaw common room.

This knowledge was one enormous weight lifted off the young woman’s shoulders. There was only one piece of data, albeit a critical and pivotal one, still missing. The search had begun in earnest then, and Hermione and her teammate, Neville Longbottom, had spent the next weeks after learning about the Horcrux’s identity in a desperate and full-tilt review of every town, village, street, and building that the Hogwarts co-founder had been known to visit. Though the correlation was not direct, where she might have left the item could lead them to where Voldemort had hidden it.

While the two former Gryffindors continued their search for the missing golden headpiece, the fight raged on in the outside world. The only factor limiting the death toll these days was a grim one – there had already been so many losses that the pickings were slimming dramatically. The expansion of the fight to Muggles had only been mitigated now by the decreased number of Death Eaters. That they were fewer in number made them no less coldblooded, however. The proportion of injuries to deaths had decreased. If they found you, they killed you. St. Mungo’s had not done much more than confirm a cause of death and process the bodies for burial, if the corpse had even been transported there.

The war had long since expanded beyond the borders of Great Britain and spilled onto the European continent. News of the lingering conflict had obviously spread throughout the Wizarding world, but the Americans, Asians, and Africans had thus far taken a “wait and see” approach, officially neither interfering nor lending support to either side. Back-channel aid in the form of funding and limited intelligence gathering had found its way to the Ministry-in-Exile, but it seemed that no one outside of Europe had the stomach to get involved in the fight, regardless of how distressing the circumstances had become. The Order - otherwise nicknamed “Dumbledore’s Army” - and loyal Ministry Aurors were on their own. This demoralizing fact made the work of Granger and Longbottom that much more critical, and now the weeks of searching had stretched to three months. They’d both acknowledge readily that it felt more like three years.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Albus! Come to the lab as quickly as you can!” Narcissa shrieked excitedly over their secure Floo connection.

Her request for his presence was urgent enough that the former Headmaster dropped everything he’d been doing to appear at the woman’s side in less than the blink of an eye. He was amused that she hadn’t flinched an inch at his abrupt entrance.

“I take it you have news to share?” he prompted.

The broad grin stretching her cheeks was all the answer he needed.

“What have you found?” he encouraged.

“The last ingredient. I’ve got it. Five separate tests have confirmed it and I’m absolutely certain that it’s a rare species of lacewing fly legs. If you combine that with the cocaine derivative that we found last week, it would extend the addictive properties by at least thirty percent,” she announced, marveling at her sister’s ingenuity while still being utterly disgusted at the results.

“That certainly explains why Draco seems to crave these horrid little things so desperately. He’d have terrible withdrawal symptoms if he went even ten or twelve hours without a new infusion. It’s no wonder that he became violent with you when you tried to deny him access to those damnable concoctions. He truly was unable to help himself, I’d wager.”

“I’m sad to say that I agree. Now that we have a complete list of ingredients, we can begin to deconstruct all the elements of this potion and what it would do to a wizard’s system. That should be our next step. Once that’s complete, we can get to work on an antidote.”

“I concur in your assessment, Narcissa. Let’s take a moment to review what we already know about the likely results of these ingredients in combination.”

_Two Hours Later_

A spirited exchange of ideas and theories had left both Narcissa and Albus mentally exhausted but pleased with the progress they’d made. Their conclusions were an enormous step forward, but they still had to contend with the charms and enchantments on the packaging. With at least one - and probably two – layers of shielded remaining, they had yet to make progress on how the package might interact with the potions contained in the truffles.

They knew without a doubt at least four major effects of the tainted treats. First, they were highly addictive and would cause severe withdrawal reactions and deep cravings that would only be ignored under great pains. Second, there were combinations of ingredients that were most often used to substantially reduce inhibitions. These were highly illegal Class C Non-Tradeable Substances, most often used as the Wizarding equivalent of Muggle “date rape” drugs. The third effect was anger inducement. The consumer would rarely feel at peace and would develop a hair-trigger temper. The fourth known result, and the one most troubling to both Narcissa and Albus, was the likely potion-form equivalent of the Imperius curse. Their ultimate conclusion was that Draco Malfoy had been under the potion-maker’s control for as long as he’d been eating the poisoned treats. While they had no solid evidence of the timing yet, both suspected that it may have been as long as five years.

The emotionally drained woman slumped against the large marble table they’d been using for final testing and confirmation. “This is just surreal,” she whispered aloud, feeling overwhelmed at both their heartbreaking discoveries and the enormous volume of work that would be required to create an effective antidote. “I’m not even sure where to begin, Albus. What do we tackle first?”

“I suggest that you do nothing tonight, my dear. You are completely exhausted, and you’ll be of no use to your son if you make mistakes, so I insist that you take a Dreamless Sleep draught tonight. In the morning, you and I will meet again to map out a strategy.”

“You’re probably right. I can’t even see straight, never mind think clearly,” she agreed, if a bit reluctantly. “What will we do about the shielding on the packaging, though?”

“I will relieve you of that task so that you can work strictly on building the antidote. Of course, I will provide whatever assistance I can on that front, as well, but you are a far more capable Potions expert than I.”

“But you’ve been so instrumental in…” she began.

He interrupted her with a raised hand and a kindly smile. “I’ve done nothing more than act as a sounding board for your own discoveries and ideas. Every step of progress has been your own.”

“That may be, Albus, but without that sounding board and your wise and thoughtful questions, I would not have made those strides in a decade,” she complimented him.

He chuckled softly. “Have faith in yourself, Narcissa. It will be what ultimately heals your family.”

With that, the aging wizard waved his goodbye and departed, leaving the witch to contemplate what her next step would be in assuring that her broken family could indeed be repaired. She feared that, in spite of the progress that had been made, the path would not be an easy one.


	26. Stepping Stones

_Previously…_

_With more determination than he could ever recall, he took to his feet and moved briskly toward the cottage’s front door. He grasped the handle, hesitating for only a fraction of a second. As he turned the knob and wrenched the door open, he heard yet another sob and whimper come from the bedroom where his victim had relived her ordeal._

_Was she calling for him? Did she need him? Was it more cowardly to stay, or to go? He would let her decide._

_“Draco.”_

He stopped cold, but didn’t close the door. The wind whipped through the small sitting room, immediately dropping the temperature by ten degrees. Draco listened again, to see if she was still calling for him or if his imagination had conjured up someone to need him, someone to care whether he stepped into the storm to meet his death.

A whimper. A sob. Another sob. “Draco.”

After what he’d done to her, what she’d remembered through her nightmare barely minutes earlier, what could she possibly want with him? It seemed that his fate, for the moment, had been derailed. He closed the door firmly, glancing back at it over his shoulder as he walked toward the bedroom where she still wept quietly.

“What do you want?” he asked, his tone clipped but not unkind.

“Wh..wh..where were you going?” she stammered.

“Who says I was going anywhere?”

“I heard th…the door,” she accused. “Were you planning to leave me here?”

“Why would I do that?” he hedged.

“How should I know?” she asked, now sounding more angry than upset. “I heard you open the door.”

“Well, I’m here now. What do you want?”

“Nothing specific. I just didn’t want you to leave me,” she admitted, murmuring just above a whisper.

“Why not? After what I did to you, what you dreamed about, I’d imagine you wouldn’t mind at all to see me in my grave,” he suggested to her.

“Draco, we’ve been through this a half dozen times. I hate what you did to me, and I can’t say that it's easy to trust you after everything that’s happened. But I don’t want to see you dead. I still think someone else has been in control of your actions, and frankly, I’m not capable of taking care of myself right now. The truth is that as much as I hate to admit it, and as selfish as it may be, I need you.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite. I haven’t been able to take more than two steps, Draco,” she reminded him.

“Hmph. I guess,” he replied, not revealing anything.

“Draco?”

“What?”

“Why were you going outside?”

He shrugged and swallowed hard, having no words that could answer her without baring more of his soul than he was willing to do at the moment.

“You know I’m not going to give up until you tell me, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Then why don’t you just get it over with? You know how persistent I can be.”

“Like a bloody dog on a bone,” he mumbled before his brain could edit his mouth. Though he couldn’t have said why, he found himself hoping that it hadn’t been loud enough for her to hear.

“Dog or not, Draco Malfoy, there is nothing that I don’t get once I put my mind to it.”

Oops.

“I didn’t mean that literally,” he tried to walk back the crude comment.

“You’ve called me a lot worse than that in the ten years we’ve been acquainted, Draco. I’m not offended by a commonly used metaphor. Now, spill.”

“I’m…I’m not ready to have that conversation with you, Granger.”

“Why not? We’ve talked about everything from attempted murder to accidental orgasms. What could be more awkward or uncomfortable than that?”

“Please, Granger, I’m not going to discuss life and death issues with you right now.”

“Life and death?” she asked. She looked at him and processed what he’d said along with what she’d heard, words like “grave” and “death” that had fallen so easily from his lips. Then the penny dropped. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“Can’t be serious about what?” he sneered, ready to deny any accusation she tossed at him.

“You were going to commit suicide,” she stated firmly. “You were going out in the storm to freeze to death.”

His lack of response and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he gulped audibly told her what he’d refused to say.

“Why?”

“If that was what I was going to do, why would you care?”

“Because you’ve made me care!” she shouted angrily. “I don’t want to, but I do, because I can’t hate someone who’s been manipulated and twisted about as badly as you have. I won’t pretend to like you, because I probably never will, but you made me care because you’ve showed me a hint of the man you could have been if someone hadn’t deliberately screwed with your psyche for years. And he’s a man I could at least respect. He’s not the coward who would run away from his problems by offing himself in the middle of a blizzard. Draco, you can be that coward, or you can be the man you could have been destined to be. It’s time to make your choice.”

He stared at her in shocked silence. How had she peeled away his layers so easily? He gaped at her, unable to formulate words.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say something?” she challenged.

“I…I don’t know what to say,” he answered, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed.

“Draco, please look at me.”

He shook his head, too humiliated to face her now.

“Draco, why did you come back?”

“I thought you needed me,” he mumbled.

“And you were right. I do need you. But why did you think that, and why did it stop you from going?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought that if you needed me, it would be worth sticking around.”

“Is that the thinking of a bad person? Would a murderous bastard care whether an injured person needed help?”

He shrugged with one shoulder, and finally sat on the bed, his energy reserves having deserted him.

“That you consciously made the decision to worry about whether or not I needed you should tell both of us everything we need to know about the truth of your character. Don’t pretend to be a coward, Draco, because you’re really not. And killing yourself is the coward’s way out.”

“But I don’t know how to live with what I’ve done, Granger. To you and to countless others who I can’t even remember. It makes me sick, to think that I won’t ever have any idea how many people I’ve killed or…assaulted. Wouldn’t it only be fair that my life is forfeited in exchange for what I’ve done?” He seemed to be pleading with her to tell him it was alright to escape his problems permanently.

“Draco, there are only two things you have to remember. First is that we’ve been at war for nearly five years. Nearly everyone who’s involved has taken lives, me included. I don’t like that I had to do that, but I’ve learned to live with what was required of me. Second, you’ve apparently not been in control of your actions for quite some time because of the potions that you were fed. How would that be any different than being under the Imperius curse? What’s not fair is that someone decided to use you against your will as a killing machine. What’s not fair is that the life you should have had was stolen from you. What would be fair, what would be right is not for you to take your own life, but to live it the way you would have if you hadn’t been drugged and manipulated, and to do something to atone for what’s happened. That’s what would take strength. That’s what would be courageous.”

He listened passively as Hermione made the argument in favor of his life. That almost made him feel worse, after how egregiously he’d harmed her. He recognized in her the younger girl who’d fought for house-elf rights, and worried over Buckbeak’s fate. She would always be a champion for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. Is that how she thinks of me? That idea was somehow comforting, but he didn’t know why.

“What if I’m not that strong? What if, underneath it all, I really am just a coward?” he wondered aloud.

“I don’t think that’s the boy your mother raised. If what I’ve seen of her is any indication, she’s a fearless woman. Would she have raised you to be anything other than a reflection of her?”

“But there’s my father to consider. No one calls him brave; everyone thinks he’s nothing but bluster. Maybe I’m more like him,” Draco suggested.

“Did you ever stop to think that, like you, he wears a mask? Maybe there’s more to him than you know. The only way you’ll ever find out is to survive this crisis and go back to your family. Learn about who you could be without the influence of potions and spells,” she offered.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” he relented. It might be interesting to see what kind of man he could become, if only he could stay out of Azkaban, a prospect about which he was not terribly optimistic. There would be nothing left to salvage after a few months there; he’d certainly be better off dead.

“Just promise me you won’t do something stupid like that again.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he told her honestly.

“Come on, Draco. You’ll get through this. I’m certain. You just need to give yourself a chance. If I’m willing to do that for you, why shouldn’t you do it for yourself?”

His “okay” was barely audible, but he’d said it.

“Good,” she acknowledged. “Listen, it’s still the middle of the night, and it’s freezing. Get under the covers and try to get some sleep.”

“Are you sure? You kicked me out not thirty minutes ago. Do you really want me back here?” he challenged.

“It’s fine, Draco. I’ve had time to calm down, and I know it will be okay,” she soothed.

He rose to turn off the light he’d flicked on earlier, and then settled back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling from his supine position for long, silent minutes.

“Granger?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

“Me, too, Draco.” She reached out and tentatively patted his cold hand twice, offering all the comfort she was capable of giving to the desperately lost young man.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Draco awoke the next morning, it was still snowing heavily, though the wind seemed to have abated somewhat. He peered out the window and estimated that nearly a foot of snow had accumulated on top of the seven inches they’d had the night before. It was one of the worst snowstorms in his memory. The clouds still looked heavy and threatening; there was no telling how much more precipitation might fall.

He quietly moved to the loo to relieve himself, careful not to awaken Hermione. He doubted she’d had much more sleep than he had. He hadn’t really heard her tossing and turning, but her breathing was not the slow, rhythmic sound of a person in slumber. They’d both had a lot to think about, apparently.

Draco made a trip to the kitchen for another glass of water, hoping to speed the purge of the insidious potion from his system. He wished in vain once more for a cup of tea. The thought, however, did not go entirely unrewarded. He placed the largest pot in the sink and filled it with water, then positioned it on the stovetop and turned on the burner. As long as he didn’t allow it to boil, he reasoned, he could have warm water for bathing. He guessed that Hermione might appreciate that too.

About five or six minutes later, tiny bubbles began to form at the edge of the pan. Draco gingerly dipped in a finger and determined that it was indeed warm, but not scalding. This will do nicely, he thought.

He carried the pot to the bathroom and set it on the countertop. Stripping off his jumper, jeans, and socks, Draco dipped an edge of the towel he’d reserved for himself into the warm water and wrung it out so that it wouldn’t drip. He cleaned his body as well as he could without the aid of soap, and dried off with the other end of the towel. He dressed quickly as the warmth from the heated water dissipated. He dumped out the remaining water and quietly returned to the kitchen, setting the pot aside for Hermione’s use later.

He added a couple of logs to the dwindling fire and stood near the hearth to absorb as much heat as he could. A few minutes later, he heard Hermione stirring in the bedroom, and went to the closed door to see if she needed assistance.

“Granger,” he called from the hallway, “do you need a hand?”

“Yes. Come in, Draco,” she invited.

“You want to use the loo?”

“Please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Like I’d really refuse you, Granger,” he smirked. “I have to sleep in that bed too.”

“Hey, don’t be a git. I’m just trying to be polite,” she retorted.

He snorted in reply, but moved to lift her from the bed. “How would you feel about a warm wash-up?” he inquired.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Draco?”

“Well, now that you mention it….”

She sighed in mock indignation, giving him a light punch to his shoulder.

“Hey! I just offered to do something nice for you, and you’re beating me up.”

“Just returning the favor, Malfoy.”

Though there was no real malice or accusation in her tone, he winced at the reminder.

“Seriously, Granger. I heated up some water on the stove, and I thought you might like to clean up a little with something other than frigid tap water.”

“That’s actually very sweet of you, Draco. I’d like that,” she observed as he settled her into the bathroom.

“Think you’ll be okay in here by yourself for a few minutes?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Good. I’ll just be in the kitchen then. Back in a few…” he noted as he closed the door behind him.

A few minutes later, he returned with the pot of warm water he’d promised. “Granger, can I open the door, or do you need a minute?”

“I’m decent. You can come in.”

Twisting the door knob with a full pot of water in hand proved to not be a simple task. Draco didn’t want to waste the warm water, nor did he want to spill it and make the floor slippery. He also didn’t want to put the pot down as it was quite full, and any unnecessary movement was causing lots of sloshing, which could lead to minor scalding if he wasn’t careful. Ah, the dilemma. “Uh, Granger?”

“Yes?”

“Is there any way you can open the door? This pot is heavy and I don’t want to splash.”

“Um, I think maybe I can. It’s only two or three steps at the most. Hang on,” she instructed.

He heard rustling and grunting behind the door, and called out to her, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec…”

He held his breath for a moment while she continued to make noise on the other side of the door. He released it when he saw the handle turn and heard the door creak on its hinges.

Hermione took one step backward to allow him to enter the room, bracing herself against the wall. She looked a little pale and strained, but didn’t appear on the verge of collapse.

Draco set the pot on the counter and turned quickly to take her arm. “Are you alright? How many steps did you take?” he asked with concerned interest.

“Uh, four, I think.”

“It wasn’t too much?”

“No, I think I’m alright,” she smiled in satisfaction. “I walked, Draco!”

“Yes, you did. Congratulations, Granger,” he praised, a twist of his lips showing that he was pleased with her progress. “Do you need me to stay while you get cleaned up, or do you want some privacy?”

“I think I’ll be alright, as long as you stay nearby just in case I need you,” she requested.

“No problem. I’ll just hang out on the bed for a bit.”

He listened to the sound of Hermione’s off-key humming and the faint splashing of water against the metal walls of the large pot. He heard a wince, which caused him to cover his face with his hands in shame. A few moments later, he noted the sound of the water being poured down the sink’s drain, followed by a light rustling of clothing as Hermione dressed. He anticipated her summons, and stood at the door just seconds before her voice rang out. “Draco, I’m done.”

Draco opened the door and reached for her with an outstretched hand which she took without hesitation. “Would you like to try to walk to the sitting room, or shall I carry you?”

“I think I’ve got a little more energy left, but I’d appreciate it if you would just support me.”

He took her other hand and walked backwards as she haltingly stepped into the sitting room and made her way toward the sofa.

She settled into place with her legs stretched out while Draco went to retrieve a couple of pillows and his cloak. He helped her situate the pillows for comfort and elevation, and gently laid the heavy wool garment across her lap. “That ought to keep you warm until the room heats up.”

“I can’t believe how cold it still is. Usually the temperature starts to moderate a little in March, but we’ve had two snowstorms in three days. It feels like mid-January.”

“I’m probably going to have to go outside in a couple of hours for logs. I added a couple when I first got up, but there are only about five or six left. That will likely only take us through the morning,” he estimated.

“Maybe the snow will let up by then,” she offered.

“I’m not going to hold my breath,” he replied. “Have you actually looked out the window? It’s practically a white-out.”

“We’ll be okay for a few hours, though. Just wait and see.”

“Not much else I can do,” he stated, dropping into the armchair to take advantage of its proximity to the heat.

“True enough.”

They were silent for several minutes, having exhausted that line of conversation. Neither seemed ready or willing to talk about the proverbial elephant in the room. Draco’s aborted suicide attempt would remain unexplored for now.

“Hungry?” Hermione broke the quiet.

“A little, but I can wait if you think we should.”

“Same here. It’s probably better to wait another hour or two to keep our meals more evenly spaced.”

“That seems sensible. My stomach is only grumbling. It hasn’t reached a full-out growl yet.”

“Fine, that’s the plan, then,” she concluded. “Maybe I can help a little since I seem to have regained my ability to stand.”

“Don’t worry about that, Granger. You’re still pretty weak, so you should rest as much as you can. Besides, I don’t mind doing the cooking. It actually feels like I’m accomplishing something,” Draco admitted.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Another silence spanned another several minutes.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Hermione inquired.

“I’ve felt worse; I’ve felt better,” Draco hedged.

“Any headaches or shakes?” she pressed.

“A dull headache. My muscles are a little shaky. I am cold, though. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Have you been drinking your water?”

“Regularly, and pissing like a racehorse, thank you very much,” he snarked.

“Well, I didn’t need to know that,” she countered, though she wasn’t really all that offended.

He shrugged and turned his lips into a half grin.

“Do you think it’s helping any? With the withdrawal symptoms?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, but I’ll go with a ‘yes’ for now.”

“That’s good.”

More silence. The crackling of the fire and the occasional howl of wind were the only exceptions.

“You said you were cold. Do you want your cloak?” she moved to lift the article of clothing from her lap.

Draco huffed in exasperation. “Keep it. I’m fine. If I’m too cold, I’ll get a blanket from the bed. Can’t you just sit quietly?” he asked with some annoyance.

Hermione shrugged. “I’m not too good at that, apparently.”

“No shit,” he drawled.

“It’s just that there’s nothing else to do. No books to read, no music to listen to, no television to watch. I’m bored, and you’re the only so-called entertainment available,” she teased, hoping he would take it as the joke she intended.

Draco snorted a laugh.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

“I wish we had a game to play.”

“If the chessboard I found a couple of days ago had any pieces to go with it, we could’ve done that.”

“I’m not so good at chess, anyway,” she confessed.

“Then it would have been a great delight for me. I’d have wiped the floor with you,” Draco declared.

“You’re good at chess?” she prompted.

“Very. I’ve been told I have a strategic mind,” he boasted.

“And yet someone was intent on using you in the basest way possible,” Hermione observed.

He shrugged. “Who knows why people do what they do?”

“What else are you good at?” she wondered, thinking to get the man talking about things that might boost his flagging self-esteem, his earlier suicidal thinking as evidence.

“I’m a pretty fair flyer. I think it’s probably because of my build being so lean. Less wind resistance,” he explained.

“With all the chocolate you supposedly eat, it’s a wonder how you stay so skinny.”

“I’m not skinny,” he answered, apparently affronted.

“You’re not unattractive, Draco. It’s just that most women seem to prefer their guys a little…beefier.” _Why the heck did I say that? What a twit I am!_ she immediately thought.

“Whatever. New topic, please,” he sulked.

So much for elevating his self-esteem, girl, Hermione chided herself. “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to insult you.”

“It’s not like I have much in the way of romantic prospects anyway. My reputation isn’t exactly stellar, and the only women who’d be interested in me are either Death Eaters or their daughters. I’m not a prime catch for a respectable woman.”

“Is that what you want, Draco? To have a relationship with a respectable woman?”

“I don’t have any idea what I really want, Granger. I still don’t even know who I really am. How can I know what – or whether – I have anything to offer to someone?”

“It might take a little while for you to rediscover your true nature, and to come to terms with your past, but I can’t see any reason that you wouldn’t be able to find someone someday.”

“Granger, even if it can be proved that I’ve been Imperiused, or controlled, or whatever by potions and spells, who is going to want to be with a man who has tortured and killed for years? My dating pool will be severely limited. Regardless of the reason, there’s too much blood on my hands.”

“Because if you were Imperiused, it wasn’t really you doing those things. Any magical person knows that it’s nearly impossible to refuse those compulsions, especially under long-term conditions. The responsibility lies in the hands of whoever cast the spells and administered the potions. The Wizengamot recognizes that, and every witch or wizard I know does as well.”

“Gee, Granger, who are you trying to convince? A bloke might think you had an interest,” he teased.

“Not on your life.”

“See?”

“But that doesn’t mean that someone else wouldn’t. You and I, Draco, are like oil and water. We just don’t mix well, no matter how you stir it up.”

“You’re right about that. There’s way too much negative history and bad blood between us.”

“But it wouldn’t shock me that we could build a cordial relationship someday. We do have some things in common, and we are well-matched intellectually. We could be pen pals, or book buddies someday,” she suggested, not entirely facetiously.

“Are you serious?” he scoffed at the prospect. “What we have in common is the ability to annoy the other to distraction, and to argue about anything and everything ceaselessly. And what the dickens is a ‘book buddy’ anyway?”

She shrugged. “Arguments can be mentally stimulating. I have very few friends who can keep up with me in a debate; you’ve always been able to do that. And a book buddy is someone with whom you can discuss literary works that you’ve both read. None of my friends are particularly enamored of reading, and it seems that you are.”

“Then there’s what I did to you added to the mix.”

“Someday, Draco, I will probably be able to forgive you for that, especially if what we think is true can be proved. I’m sure I’ll never forget it, but I hope that I can get beyond it. I hope that you will be able to do that too.”

“What would help me to get beyond it is to find out who did this to me and why. I promise you this: if I find out who did this, I will make them pay.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help you figure out who that is. I wouldn’t mind a shot or two at him myself.”

“Why? It’s not like they did anything to you.”

“Oh, no? I told you yesterday, I blame them more than you for what you did to me, and I mean it.”

“If I could just pinpoint exactly what it was or when it happened, I might be able to figure it out. I just can’t…” he trailed off, thoughts whirring in his head.

“Can’t what?”

“I was going to say ‘remember,’ but I’m not sure that’s true,” he answered, mental strain creasing his brow and his eyes glazing with distraction.

“Are you? Remembering something, I mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I think maybe I am.”

“Take your time. Stop if your head starts to hurt more.”

He shook his head. “I’m alright. I think this is important, and I’m willing to try. Just give me a minute.”

Draco sat quietly in the chair, shifting his position slightly every few moments. He seemed to be battling with how to reconcile what he was picturing with what his assumptions had been. He closed his eyes and lightly massaged his temples, not so much to relieve pain as to keep his focus.

He broke the silence suddenly, his head whipping up to make eye contact with Hermione. “You know how I said earlier that the only thing I truly craved was the truffles?”

“Sure.”

“And I said that I’d always had them either in a gift package from my mother or at the manor.”

“Right.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely accurate.”

“No?”

“Merlin, if this is true…” he wondered aloud.

“What?” she prompted, anxious to hear what he’d speculated.

“You remember how a couple of days ago I said that my Aunt Bella would be someone who might want to control me? And I rejected that possibility.”

“Yes.”

“I’m rethinking that. I just recalled that, especially early on, she was often there when I ate the truffles at the manor. And I think that she gave them to me directly at least once, but possibly more often.”

“Do you remember when?”

“Yeah, and if what I remembered is accurate, it was pretty twisted.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, but I think I need to. It’s beyond disgusting.”

“Draco, you know I won’t judge you for it, especially if you were under her control.”

“Merlin, it makes me want to puke,” he groaned, running his fingers through his hair and tugging at it in handfuls.

“Well, your aunt is an… unbalanced character.”

“Please promise me you won’t ever share this with anyone, no matter what,” he pleaded.

“Draco, with everything that’s happened between us in the last few days, being indiscreet about our conversations is the last thing either of us needs to worry about,” she said pointedly.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“So?”

He shuddered and took a deep breath. “It was the night I took the Dark Mark. Before the ceremony with the Dark Lord, she put me through what she called a ‘ritual cleansing’ that was very… sexual in nature. I got very angry that she was touching me that way and I talked back to her. She gave me some truffles to calm me down. And they worked immediately. It was like being given a tranquility potion.”

“I’m not sure what to say to that, Draco.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you saying that she… sexually molested you?”

His face was beet red. “Yeah.”

“Oh, Merlin.”

“Yeah.”

“Draco?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you alright? Are you getting a headache?”

He glanced up at her from his slumped position, eyes going wide. “No.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

“Does that mean that maybe you’re over the worst of it? The potion is wearing off?”

“I hope so.”

“You probably shouldn’t take any chances, though. Keep drinking the water.”

“Yeah.”

They both fell silent again for a few moments, though Draco’s breathing seemed a bit rough and labored.

He was building himself up into a massive explosion and Merlin help the woman who was its cause. “I’m starting to think it was her all along,” he seethed, standing to pace the small sitting room. “How could she do that to me?” he murmured under his breath.

Hermione wasn’t sure what she should do, but it was clear that Draco was working himself into a lather. Perhaps it would be best to keep her thoughts to herself for now.

“I’ll kill her. With my bare hands, I’ll rip her head off,” he threatened.

“If you like, I’ll help.”

His head whipped around and he momentarily looked surprised to find another person in the room. “Thanks, Granger, but this one is all mine.”

“Glad to leave it to you, but I appreciate the intent.”

“Why would she do this?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

“There is no greater fanatic for Voldemort than your aunt. She’d do absolutely anything for him. I think that since she had no children of her own to give him, she decided to offer you.”

He was stunned speechless. He’d never have imagined that.

“But I wasn’t hers to give,” he argued, unable to reconcile what Bella’s twisted thinking might have been.

“You were of the same blood. To her, bloodlines are everything. Never mind that Voldemort is a half-blood, it doesn’t fit with the rhetoric. She found the closest blood she could give him. Pure and perfect, in her eyes. She gave you to his service without a second thought, because in her twisted logic, it was the only thing she could give him that rivaled her own service.”

“How do you come to those conclusions? You don’t know her that well, do you?”

“No, not directly. But I’ve talked with Andy, and she told me stories about how when they were younger in the first war, Bella tried to recruit her to become a Death Eater even though she was barely fifteen. And she apparently kept trying to get pregnant so that she could give a child to Voldemort to use as he wished. I’m just extrapolating.”

“It’s a bit of a stretch, but I can understand how you’d get there,” he allowed. “But how would my parents have allowed it to happen?”

“They probably didn’t know the extent of her desire or the lengths she’d travel to achieve it. Didn’t you say something about your father not allowing you to get the Dark Mark when you first asked?”

“That’s true. I asked again when I turned sixteen, and we talked about what happened then. It was Bella who sponsored me, as my blood relat…” he trailed off, the impact of what he’d just said hitting him like a ton of bricks. “Shit.”

“Can’t disagree with you there.”

“Merlin. My own aunt.”

“Can you think of anyone else who would have a better motive? More access? The skill to pull it off?”

“Other than my parents? No. No one.”

“What about her husband?”

“Rodolphus? What about him?”

“Do you think he could have been involved?”

“If she did it, he was in the thick of it with her. He’s at least as… enthusiastic as she is. He’s also very skilled with potions, maybe more so than Bella. The two of them working together would be a formidable force.”

“And it appears they were immensely successful for several years.”

Draco grew quiet and brooding, thinking about the damage that his insane relative had wrought on his life. It would take some doing to process this.

“I think I need a little time on my own, if you don’t mind. I’m going to rest in the bedroom for a little while.”

“I understand. I’m here if you want to talk,” she offered.

“Thanks,” he replied, genuinely appreciative of her willingness to help, though he had no intention of taking her up on it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco had remained in the bedroom for a couple of hours, emerging silently to make lunch for them when his stomach began to grumble uncomfortably.

They’d eaten without speaking, and he retreated once more to the bedroom after adding the last of the logs to the fire. Two more hours had passed before he’d rejoined Hermione in the sitting room, but he still wasn’t ready to talk. By then, Hermione had succumbed to her own boredom and drifted off to sleep.

Draco looked outside to note that the snow had finally diminished to flurries, and he opened the door quickly to grab a few logs from the porch. The fire was in danger of going out if he didn’t add some wood to it soon. He added two logs and stacked six more near the hearth so that they would dry.

Hermione slept for a long while and Draco concluded that her short walk that morning had taken a great deal more of her strength than she’d been willing to admit. He’d let her rest. He still needed time to come to terms with what he’d discovered earlier in the day.

By the time both of them were awake and aware again, it was time for dinner, and Draco prepared their meal once more. When they were done, he joined Hermione in the sitting room once again, still not terribly talkative, but feeling slightly less morose. They shared a little meaningless conversation about how boring it was to eat the same things over and over again, and lapsed once more into peaceful quiet.

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing briskly against nearly four days of stubble on his cheeks and chin. It’s itchy, he thought absently. What I wouldn’t give for a razor.

“What?” she nudged.

“Oh, nothing. Just had a totally non sequitor thought.”

“Which was…?”

“That I would love a shave.”

“Yes, that’s definitely one out of nowhere.”

“My beard is getting itchy, and it’s annoying.”

“Your beard is so light-colored that I hadn’t even noticed it.”

“Well, it’s there, and I’d rather it not be.”

“Can I ask a dumb, yet personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Do wizards use a razor like Muggles, or a wand to shave?”

“Most wizards use a straight razor, but you can use a wand in a pinch. Why?”

“Just curious. I never thought about it before.”

“Well, how do witches get rid of the hair on their legs?”

“We usually use a potion that sort of dissolves it.”

“Wow. Okay. Never thought of that. Does it burn?” he wondered.

“No. It sort of… tickles.”

He shook his head, amused both at the concept and at their odd turn of conversation.

“It was nice to wash up with warm water this morning, but I have to tell you, I would give my left arm for a nice hot shower with lots of sudsy soap. And shampoo. My hair feels disgusting.”

“You’re not the only one. I’d relinquish half my family fortune for a hot shower, and maybe just a little more heat. The fireplace is a help, but this isn’t like the magical kind that really radiates warmth throughout the whole building. And we don’t have a lot more wood on the porch.”

“I know. It just isn’t the same as the fireplaces in the Hogwarts common rooms. Or heating charms. They work pretty well, too.”

“Yes, well, no wands, no heating charms.”

“If I could only figure out why the furnace won’t start…” she wished.

“Yes, that would be a good thing,” he agreed.

“Maybe we could walk through the start-up process one more time.”

“It’s up to you. I’m really just following your lead on this, so I’m at your mercy.”

“Let me think for a minute,” she suggested, and closed her eyes to mentally take each step that she could think of for getting the heat going.

“We have electricity.”

“What?”

“Electricity, you know, power for the lights and appliances?”

“Oh, have I been saying it wrong? I thought it was eckeltricity.”

“It just didn’t seem worth it to correct you.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, you’re not the only wizard who’s made that mistake. That’s what Ron called it too.”

“Now I’m really sick.”

“Shut it. He’s not that bad a person.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow in amusement. It seemed there might be more to that statement, so he decided to nudge her just a little. “Not that bad?”

“We had a brief relationship that didn’t really end well.”

“No kidding?”

“No. I still think of him as a good friend, but my eyes were definitely opened about some of his less… endearing qualities.”

“Well, that’s just… priceless.”

“Enough. Let’s get back to what’s important.”

“I don’t know, this seems pretty important to me. Granger doesn’t think Weasel walks on water any longer. I have to respect that, I think.”

Hermione just rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore the topic. “Anyway, we have electricity. We have fuel. We’ve located and set the thermostat. We’ve made sure the switch is in the ‘heat’ position. What could I be missing?”

“You said power, fuel, thermostat, heat. Did I get everything?”

“Yes. I think so,” she answered automatically, but something he’d said niggled at the back of her brain. She thought about it for a moment, but didn’t note anything of significance. “Say that one more time,” she requested.

“Power, fuel, thermostat, heat.”

“Power, fuel, thermostat, and heat,” she repeated. “Power, fuel, thermostat, heat.”

“Right.”

“Oh, my God. Could it be that simple?” she asked rhetorically, looking at Draco as though the dawn had just broken after a month of night. “Power, Draco.”

“Yeah, the eckeltricity. I mean elec, what was it?”

“Electricity. But there’s more than one way to think of power. It’s not just the power, it’s the switch!” she exclaimed excitedly.

“But we flipped the switch to the heat position yesterday,” he argued.

“No. Not that switch. The main switch for the furnace. If the heating system hasn’t been in use for awhile, they may have shut off the main switch. It has to be turned on or the furnace won’t start.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense. Where would this switch be, and what would it look like?”

“It looks just like a regular light switch, but it’s usually got a bright red plastic frame around it, like the white one on the wall over there,” she observed, pointing to the wall plate that he’d used earlier.

“So if I can find this main switch, and turn it on, we might be able to get the furnace started?” he confirmed his understanding.

“Yes.”

“Where should I look?”

“Try the entrance to the basement. It’s often on the wall heading downstairs. If not, look on the furnace itself.”

He rose immediately to look for the red switch plate and found it seconds later in the hallway heading into the basement. “I think this is it. It says ‘Burner’ on it.”

“Yes! That’s it! Flip it to the ‘on’ position.”

He did. And the furnace roared beneath his feet.

“Yes! It started,” he announced, smiling broadly.

Hermione matched his grin with one of her own, and expressed her satisfaction with a job well done. “I knew we could figure it out,” she professed. “I just wish we could have done it sooner.”

“No use worrying over it now. It’s sorted and we’ll be toasty warm in no time.”

“So even if we’re low on wood, we’ll be fine. From what you said, there’s more than enough fuel in the tank for at least a week, maybe more.”

“And sleeping shouldn’t be a problem now, either, Granger. I’ll take the smaller room, and you can stay in the larger one.”

“Oh, thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Does this mean that we’ll have hot water, too?” Draco asked.

“It should. If you described the setup accurately, the furnace powers the water heater. By morning, we should be able to have hot showers and properly wash the dishes.”

“Thank Merlin.”

An hour later, Draco had helped Hermione settle into bed and had taken some of the linens for use in the smaller bedroom. He’d left her with the quilt and his heavy cloak, and she proclaimed that she was comfortably warm.

He took one of the towels and tucked it into the window sash as best he could to minimize the draft from the crack that ran from one edge to the other. Satisfied that he’d blocked it reasonably well, Draco stripped off his jeans and jumper and climbed into the small bed. It definitely wasn’t as comfortable as the one in which Hermione was resting, but was certainly a great deal better than sleeping on the sofa. He’d make do.

It had been an exhausting day, and despite the many hours that he’d spent alone in contemplation, he’d had very little sleep. It took only a few minutes for him to drift into slumber.

In the room down the hall, Hermione was also feeling drained and exhausted. She’d not told him that there had been a renewed flow of blood from the tear in her vagina. It wasn’t a lot, but that it had started again concerned her. She thought that she probably shouldn’t have tried to walk as much as she had earlier in the day. She’d have to be especially careful in the next day or two, and if the bleeding hadn’t stopped by then, she would tell him.

Sleep came quickly, but it was not peaceful. She tossed and thrashed in vivid dreams, not of Draco’s attack, but of her imagination’s conjuring of events in the outside world. She awoke with a start in the middle of the night, scared and alone. In that moment, she missed his presence beside her. That thought was the most frightening of all.


	27. Betrayal

_**Eight Months Ago** _

Hermione felt like pounding her head against the cold stone wall. She and Neville had been researching for months, since their secret benefactor had confirmed for them that Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem was the final unknown Horcrux, to locate the missing item. The search had taken them all over Great Britain, into tiny hovels and hidden caves, and to meetings with odd characters, both of the nefarious and squirrely sorts.

Now that it had finally been located – and destroyed – Hermione couldn’t help but feel that all of that effort, and all of that time, had been wasted. The damned thing had been right under their noses inside the Hogwarts castle the entire time. Every night for the last week, she relived the way she'd finally figured it out. _How could I have been so blind?_ She wondered over and over again, but it was a question that would have no answer. Her sense of responsibility refused to take notice of the fact that she had not been alone in her efforts, and thus the blame - and credit - was shared.

It was especially ironic to Hermione that the final clue to the diadem’s location had come from a house-elf. She could have flogged herself for not thinking to ask Hogwarts’ resident facilities staff what they knew about the object. When one of the older creatures had asked simply whether Miss had thought to look in the Come and Go Room, she’d nearly choked on the pumpkin juice she’d been drinking. From there, it had been a simple matter of entering the room and using a standard summoning spell. It had been destroyed by Harry the next morning when he’d returned from a mission outside the castle.

How utterly anticlimactic, she thought. Her hardest work was done. Now, she was itching to get into the fight. The planning for the final offensive could begin in earnest with this milestone met. Dumbledore’s Army believed they had an advantage in that they felt quite certain that Voldemort knew nothing of their quest to destroy all the vile pieces of his soul that he’d left lying around Great Britain and the European continent. If he believed that he still had seven chances at rebirth, he’d either be too cocky or too lax. Either posture could prove fatal in a war. That’s what the Light side was counting on as their ace in the hole.

Crafting a final battle strategy would not be a quick nor easy proposition. Voldemort’s Death Eaters had been joined in the battle by werewolves and at least one contingent of giants. Vampires were less predictable; they’d not declared any allegiance as a group, but there was a sizable cadre of the dark beings who had aligned themselves with the Dark Lord. That Voldemort had no compunction against using Inferi was one more obstacle for the DA to overcome, as the supply was nearly unlimited.

Stage One of the strategy would involve mapping out their logistics. What did they have available for resources in both personnel and materiel? The weaponry at their disposal would need to go far beyond the usual wand-with-spell repertoire. They had procured Muggle military goods which had been particularly effective against the magical creatures that did not wield wands or respond readily to cast spells, giants and Inferi in particular. The assessment would also need to include as thorough an accounting as possible of their enemy’s resources. That would be a daunting challenge to overcome.

Stage Two was terrain mapping. Where were their resources in relation to Voldemort’s? How would they move their teams to more strategic and tactical locations without detection? Where could they develop additional intelligence on movements of Voldemort’s troops? They hoped that their long-term undercover asset would be of aid in this effort.

Stage Three was planning for the final tactical offensive, including how to dispose of Nagini – the final Horcrux – as early in the fight as possible. Dumbledore and Harry had agreed that they wanted to take the battle to Voldemort rather than assume a defensive posture. This was one area where they would be lost without the information provided by Lucius Malfoy, who was still only known to Dumbledore and Minerva as one of their own.

Stage Four, the ultimate goal, was the permanent destruction of Voldemort himself, which according to prophecy, could only be carried out by Harry alone. The elite group that had been his battle companions for years had one mission: make sure Harry survives to that point, at all costs.

They were still working through Stage One issues, and anticipated at least two more months before they’d be ready to move to Stage Two. It made the planning more difficult when key players continued to fall in skirmishes and to ambush. They would go on, because the alternative was unthinkable, but every loss made the task more challenging.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Deep in the Slytherin dungeon, the mysterious woman who toiled day and night over cauldrons and burners was making slow but steady progress. As far as the other castle residents could tell, she had no visitors and spoke only with the former Headmaster. Whatever she was working on was clearly important, whether to her alone or to the war effort at large, no one could say. Her unflagging devotion to her mission was nearly the stuff of legend.

Narcissa was getting close to a solution to her problem, and that was driving her. She would not rest until she found a way to reclaim her son from the horror that had been forced upon him for so long. That her sister and brother-in-law had almost certainly been behind it all had sickened and infuriated her. She would have her revenge. As soon as Lucius could conclusively prove what they both knew in their hearts, they would know the wrath of Malfoys harmed.

Good news had been delivered a couple of days earlier by her protector and friend, Albus Dumbledore. True to his word, he had taken on the task she’d been unable to complete when her attention was demanded by the antidote she believed she was so close to finishing. It had taken months and every one of the considerable skills at the formidable wizard’s disposal to unravel the shields and protections on the truffles’ packaging. Her sister, she assumed, had gone to inconceivable lengths to avoid detection of her scheme.

His work had revealed heavy doses of compulsion spells, akin to the Imperius but less specific in nature, and memory charms. These were particularly nasty. They forced the target to forget his or her actions and layered in a graduated pain-inducing hex that caused excruciating headaches when any attempt was made at recalling what he or she had done. The only bit of good news about the spells was that they would wear off more quickly than the effects of the potions because they needed frequent reinforcement, and they could be halted with the simple casting of Finite Incantatem.

Dumbledore’s discoveries had evoked mixed emotions in Narcissa. She was grateful to know exactly what they were up against and equally incensed at the depth and breadth of the manipulation that had been forced upon her son. It was no wonder that his behavior and personality had changed so fundamentally and dramatically; they had deliberately and skillfully crafted a killing machine with their potions and spells. She and Albus had come to the conclusion that the young man’s life was probably salvageable, but the key would be in the antidote more than in reversing the spells. She had more work to do.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Lucius was determined to keep his promise to his wife. They would know beyond a single doubt who had been responsible for their son’s horrific transformation. And the perpetrator would pay. He and Narcissa felt certain they knew exactly who to blame, but evidence was required. Vengeance was one thing, vigilantism was another. They’d not make that mistake.

Lucius had a plan to gather the proof they needed, and it would be executed late tonight.The Dark Lord had planned another revel to celebrate a recent battle victory, and the head of the Malfoy family would be there, not to join in the festivities, but to capture his quarry.

Rodolphus was infamous for his enthusiastic participation in these raucous events, and that would be Lucius’ key to ensnaring the man. A drunken Lestrange was easy to manipulate. The only unknown factor was Bella’s presence. If she was nearby, it would be dicey to remove her husband without her knowledge. Lucius hoped that the Dark Lord’s hunger for the woman would appear, as it typically did during the debauchery that accompanied the evening’s events. They’d be occupied for quite some time, if that were the case, and Lucius’ plan could proceed. He chuckled at the odd juxtaposition. While the Dark Lord fucked the man’s wife, Lucius would be fucking with his brain.

With his wife’s assistance in procuring the increasingly rare ingredients, Lucius had brewed a version of Veritaserum that was particularly difficult to subvert, even for those who had been trained in the practice, and doubly so for one in his cups. That, in conjunction with his exceptional skill in Legilimency, would be Lord Malfoy’s line of attack to gain the substantiation he needed. Now, all he had to do was wait for the “festivities” to begin in earnest. He was grateful that he was still viewed as a man in mourning; it exempted him from many activities that he found particularly distasteful. All he needed to do was wear his well-practiced mask of grief and loss, not terribly difficult to do when he missed his wife’s constant presence.

The Dark Lord had cast his mark in the sky above the clearing in which they’d gathered, signaling the start of their perverse celebration. Lucius cast his eyes downward as his former compatriots tortured and raped their quota of captives for the night. He ached at not being able to stop the pain these defenseless Muggles were forced to endure. His sneer of disgust was interpreted as being against the dirty-blooded creatures, a misunderstanding he was glad to allow.

The heavy drinking and potion-imbibing began shortly after the last of the bodies was dragged away for disposal. Who wanted to see that filth while they were having fun?

Rodolphus was first in line for the strong concoction of Firewhisky laced with a light hallucinogenic. It wouldn’t be long before his intoxication level would allow Lucius to make his move. The one other variable, Bella’s disappearance with the Dark Lord, had yet to occur. Maybe a little nudge would be in order.

“Quite an evening, my Lord,” Lucius drawled as he sidled up to the half-blood’s makeshift throne.

“Yesss, quite,” the Dark leader hissed in agreement. “Our friends appear to be having an enjoyable evening. You should join in the revel, Lucius. I’m… concerned for you.”

“I’m not yet feeling up to much celebrating, my Lord. Narcissa is still so much on my mind,” he confessed, truthfully.

“There will come a time when your mourning will need to cease, Lucius,” he warned.

“And I feel that time will be soon, but not just yet.”

“I’m sure you know what’s best for you, but a man has needs,” he reminded his supposed minion.

“That desire has not been an issue for me, Lord. I am fine. But you must not ignore your own, if you are to continue to guide us. Bella is looking most… fetching tonight, is she not?” he prodded, seizing the opportunity that the conversation had presented.

“She is indeed. It would be such a waste to let her go…untapped,” Voldemort chuckled, a most disturbing sound.

“Then I will leave you to your pleasure, my Lord,” Lucius answered, tilting his head in what the Dark wizard certainly interpreted as a respectful bow.

Seconds later, he heard Voldemort call out for his sex toy and watched keenly as she hurried to his side. They disappeared from the clearing moments later. It seemed that the Dark Lord had no issue in watching others engaged in the most depraved of sexual activity, but he demanded privacy for his own bedding.

Lucius snorted, thinking, Who’d want to see that freak in his twisted practices, anyway?

His opportunity had arrived, and he would not let it slip away.

He hurried to where he’d seen his brother-in-law last imbibing great quantities of alcohol and found that the man had seated himself on the ground, no longer able to stand upright in his inebriated state. He used his wand and cast a spell that allowed him to easily lift the incapacitated wizard, saying for any witnesses, “Come with me, Rodolphus, and we’ll find some entertainment.”

He Apparated both of them back to the dungeons at Malfoy Manor and stunned the man so that he could complete his final preparations. First, he’d need to remove his wand and sober him up just enough that he wasn’t speaking in gibberish or gobbledygook. Second, he’d feed him the appropriate dosage of Veritaserum and allow it the two or three minutes it required to take effect. Finally, he would bind the man to ensure that no counterattack could be launched once he cast his Legilimency spell. These steps were accomplished in quick precision, and he had an angry, unwilling, but totally compliant wizard in his grasp.

“We have a few things to discuss, Rodolphus,” Lucius announced, his stare menacing and penetrating. “You will answer my questions thoroughly and truthfully, and you may survive the night. Past that, there are no guarantees, my friend.”

“What is your problem, Malfoy? Why are we here, and why did you take me away from the revel?” Lestrange demanded.

“You will be the one answering questions tonight. Shut up or I’ll add the Imperius curse to my repertoire for the evening,” he warned, thinking that he’d like nothing better than to tack on a Crucio or two.

The bound wizard seemed to recognize the implied threat, and being a master of self-preservation, thought it better to keep his mouth closed and see what developed. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Have you or your wife done anything to drug or spell Draco?” Lucius asked directly in his opening salvo.

The tall blond could see the dark man struggle mightily against answering, but knew it would be of no use. He was rewarded seconds later with the reply he’d anticipated.

“Yes.”

“Exactly what have you been giving him?” Lucius seethed, intent on getting every detail now that he had the fundamental answer.

“A brew of our own making, infused into chocolate truffles.”

“What does this brew do?”

“It’s a liquid form of Imperio, and it reduces inhibitions,” the man replied, fighting mightily against revealing more.

“What else?” Lucius asked between clenched teeth.

“It has powerful addictives, some derived from Muggle cocaine.”

“Everything!” Lucius bellowed, not willing to allow any detail to escape.

“The packaging had spells that activated when he opened the box.”

“What spells?” Lucius pressed, barely containing his temper.

“Compulsions to murder, rape, and follow any order given by myself or Bella.”

“There’s more; what is it?”

“Memory charms to forget what he’s done, and pain hexes to discourage him from trying to remember.”

“What about his… sadistic tendencies?”

“That was Bella’s conditioning.”

“What did she do? How?” he demanded to know.

“She cast Felliato spells on him whenever he tortured or killed people so that he’d have orgasms. Didn’t take long for them to happen spontaneously.”

Lucius felt like throwing up at hearing the lengths of depravity his wife’s sister had achieved.

“Why?” he croaked.

“She thought it would encourage him to kill and torture more often, for the thrill of it.”

“Did she do that to him at his marking ceremony?” he wondered aloud, having suspected that something odd had happened that night.

“Yes.”

“Oh Merlin,” Lucius breathed. He needed a moment to compose himself before he could continue his interrogation, and cast a stunning spell on his prisoner to keep him from disturbing his train of thought. He wondered if anything could be salvaged from this information, and as an idea came to him, he revived the stupefied wizard.

“Did you create an antidote for the potions?” he asked, hoping to spare his wife some effort.

“No.”

It had been unlikely, but he’d had to try.

“Is what you’ve done to him reversible?”

“The spells are easily removed. The potions are long term. It would require an antidote, which does not exist.”

“Not yet,” Lucius whispered under his breath. “When did you begin doing this?”

“Years ago, when he was still at Hogwarts.”

“How did you deliver them to him?”

“We had one of your house-elves under our control. She would add the boxes to care packages that came from Narcissa, and kept a supply at the Manor to be given to him whenever he was home.”

“Why was I unable to open the cabinet where they were kept?”

“You didn’t have the right blood.”

“What was the right blood?”

“Bella’s.”

So that’s why Narcissa was able to open the cabinet when I could not, he realized. She and her sister shared Black blood. And as another Black family descendent, Draco would have been able to open the cabinet to get what he wanted, too.

“Why? Why my son?”

“For me, it was because you refused to give him to the Dark Lord in service. I won’t be refused. He won’t be refused. You needed to be taught a lesson, so we took him from under your very nose using the one thing we knew he had a weakness for. It was a great coup against the invincible Lucius Malfoy, in my opinion. If Bella had another reason, you’d have to ask her. I don’t know.”

“What else?” he pressed once again.

“I’m not sorry we did it. He’s been a most effective tool. I’d do it again.”

At this pronouncement, Lucius roared his anger, and struck the bound man across the temple with his cane, unable to contain his need to hurt the bastard any longer. He was only marginally satisfied to see blood pour from the gash he’d caused. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it would have to suffice for now. He also realized in that moment that he would not be able to keep the man much longer. The Veritaserum would wear off in just a few minutes, and what he’d seen in Legilimency had confirmed what the man had said.

He stunned Lestrange once more, releasing his bonds and Apparating them back to the edge of the clearing where the revel continued in full swing. He tucked the man’s wand into his pocket, cast one more spell – “Obliviate” – and took the man’s arm as he swayed under the force of that combined with the revival from his earlier Stupefy.

“What are we doing out here?” Lestrange asked, disoriented. He touched a hand to his aching head and saw blood.

“I came out here to take a piss, and found you wandering around. Looks like you had too much to drink again. You must have stumbled into something,” Lucius lied smoothly.

“Oh, well, thanks, I guess.”

Lucius nodded an acknowledgement and left the man to fend for himself. He had other things to attend to now, and a visit to Hogwarts was top on his list.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The owl Lucius had sent to Albus had only had three words on it, but the message was unmistakable. “Proof. Coming now.” The elder wizard had opened his Floo to receive the visitor that he knew would be arriving any moment. By the time he’d sent a quick note to Narcissa, the roar of green flame heralded her husband’s appearance.

There had been little in the way of preamble, he had so much to share and so much anger to relinquish, at least until they’d determined exactly how they’d extract their payment from the two people who had been members of their own family. Lucius was trembling as he told his wife and their protector what he’d learned from his questioning of Rodolphus. She had gasped more than once at the revelations, even though they’d deduced much of it from their own research. It was another thing entirely to hear the testimony. When Albus had offered the use of his pensieve as a way to spare Lucius from having to speak the horrors he’d learned, the overwhelmed man had agreed. Seeing the events unfold this way was a bit harder on Narcissa, but it would allow them to easily replay what had happened. That could be important in their efforts to finalize the antidote, so she withstood the anguish.

When the viewing was complete, both Malfoys were shaken and livid, but not surprised. They’d received the confirmation they’d been after. There would be discussions of how to proceed, but they would come later. There was still so much to process, and the higher priority of finishing the antidote. The need to save their son from this insidious manipulation had redoubled, now that they knew for certain that his behavior had not been of his own volition.

Albus was less personally affected, but no less disgusted by what he’d seen and heard. It was unspeakable that someone would deliberately choose to so fundamentally manipulate and subvert the life of a young man, one who had so much potential. It explained everything that had happened in the boy’s fifth and sixth years, and had absolved the young man of direct responsibility for his acts. He had been played, most skillfully.

Dumbledore, as a member of the Wizengamot, was grateful that Lucius had not used an Unforgiveable curse on his son’s tormentor. That would have made court proceedings significantly more difficult. He doubted, however, that Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange would ever see the inside of a courtroom. For all that Lucius had done to aid the Light against Voldemort, there was still a fundamental darkness about the man. He had no doubt that justice would be meted out, but not by a Ministry court. After everything that had happened, he would not feel one bit of guilty for looking the other way on this matter. Where the memory would more likely be helpful was when Draco was inevitably called to account for his crimes. He removed the memory from his pensieve and made a copy. The original, he bottled, labeled, and tucked away in the hope that it would help to salvage what was left of a young man’s life. The copy, he returned to the pensieve to watch again. He hoped he would see something that the emotional parents might have missed - something that would aid in ensuring the successful brewing of an antidote for Draco.

In the dungeon several floors below Dumbledore’s office, the Malfoys paced the floor, still fuming over what they’d learned. They had been utterly betrayed by members of their own family, people who they had welcomed into their home and with whom they shared meals and holidays. The subtle attack on their family had been so malicious, so deliberate, and so unwarranted that they were nearly paralyzed with the shock of it. While Draco had paid the highest price in the stripping of his humanity, Narcissa and Lucius had also been victimized. Draco’s attack on his mother months before could firmly be laid at her sister’s feet. Lucius’ separation from his wife had been driven by her need to find a way to reclaim her son. They’d all suffered, and payback would not be pretty.

“How close are you to completing the antidote, Cissy?”

“I’ve made significant progress, but I’m not there yet. I’d guess that I need about four or five more months, then another couple of weeks for efficacy testing.”

“Is there anything in the information I extracted from Rodolphus that could be helpful?”

She shrugged with uncertainty. “I’ll need to see the memory again. It was too upsetting the first time through to really glean anything of analytical value. I’ll need to calm myself for a couple of days before I’m ready to hear that man’s voice again.”

“I can understand that. I would love nothing better than to rip his limbs from his body.”

“I know, and I have plenty of my own scores to settle too. But it wouldn’t be wise to take any drastic action against them now. What if there’s something more that we need to know? Something else that we can get only from them? I’m not ready to risk our only source of information just to see them pay for what they’ve done. There will be time for that when we’ve figured out how to help Draco.”

Lucius sighed, reluctantly agreeing with his wife’s conclusion. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to be in the same room with either of them ever again without wanting to Avada them,” he confessed.

“We must be strong, for each other and for our boy. If we succumb to the need for vengeance too soon, we could still lose everything. I won’t risk it, and I won’t allow you to do that either,” she told him firmly.

“Then you may need to have me make an Unbreakable Vow to refrain from raining my fury on them. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold my wand at bay.”

“You are strong enough, Lucius. Just remember that what’s at stake here is the future of our family. That will sustain you, as it has me for all these months,” she told him, stopping her pacing to draw her husband into her arms. “Remember the goal, and that will guide your actions.”

He sighed again and dropped his head to rest atop hers, taking some measure of comfort in her embrace. “You are an amazing woman, Narcissa. You are strong enough for the both of us. If only I know that you are here, doing your part, I will do mine,” he promised. “But the minute we’ve successfully completed Draco’s antidote, there will be no holding me back. Your sister and her husband will pay for what they’ve done to us.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two more months passed with incremental progress on Narcissa’s antidote. She had isolated and developed reversals for all but one of the compounds that her testing had revealed. The last piece was moving well, and all that was left was the integration of all the separate elements into one suspension, and final testing. For the first time, she really believed that their goal was in reach. She would reclaim her son, reclaim her husband, and reclaim her life in just a few short months. Then, heaven help the Lestranges, because no one else could.


	28. Retrieval

The next morning dawned cold but clear. The snow had finally stopped a couple of hours before they’d retired for the night, and there was a thick, crusty blanket over the landscape as far as the eye could see. Draco awoke first and dashed into the small adjacent bathroom for fear of his severely strained bladder bursting. He ached with relief. When he turned on the tap to wash his hands, he was pleasantly surprised to find the water nicely warm. He’d almost forgotten about the breakthrough they’d had with the furnace the night before. He couldn’t wait to take a shower, but figured he should check on Hermione first.

Tugging on his jeans and jumper, he made his way to the other bedroom’s door and listened with his ear pressed tight to the wood for any sound of movement. When he heard light rustling, he assumed she was awake and knocked.

“Granger, it’s me. Are you up?” he called.

A faint and tired hum of acknowledgement filtered through the heavy oak, but enough that he took it as an invitation to enter.

“Whoa! What’s wrong, Granger? You look like shit,” he observed.

“Didn’t sleep well,” she whispered.

“Missed me?” he teased.

“Did too much yesterday.”

He immediately regretted his joshing; his chest felt hot and tight. “Are you alright?” he asked, worry evident in his tone.

“Um.”

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“Not sure.”

“I don’t believe you. Something’s happened. What is it?” he pressed.

“Since when do you know me that well?”

“Since three days and nights of close contact, Granger. I may be a rotten git, but I’m an observant one. So 'fess up. What’s wrong?” he demanded again.

She sighed. It had been too much to hope that she could keep this from him, she concluded. “I started bleeding again.”

He didn’t speak, but his wide eyes and frantic swallowing told the story of his anxiety at hearing this news.

“It’s not a lot, but it started late yesterday afternoon, after I’d walked a little. I think I probably just overdid it a bit,” she said in an attempt to allay his fears.

“Are you sure it’s from the injury? Could it be your, um, monthlies?” he grasped at straws, flushing brightly at bringing up yet another terribly intimate topic with the woman.

“No, it’s from the injury. Wrong week for my period. Different kind of blood,” she stated quietly, but didn’t elaborate further.

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry. I really am. Is there anything I can do for you?” he pleaded.

“No, I think I’ll be alright. I should just try not to push it today. Stay flat as much as possible. It really wasn’t that much bleeding, Draco. I’m sure it’ll be okay. Don’t worry,” she urged him. She smiled slightly, trying to show a lack of concern.

“I came in here to see if you wanted to get in the shower. The water’s warm. Do you think that might help?” he wondered.

“I don’t know. It would certainly feel nice, but I’m concerned about staying upright in the shower. It wouldn’t do to keel over all alone in there,” she stated the obvious.

“No, I suppose that would be bad.”

“Right.”

“If you want, I could help you,” he offered before he even realized what had come out of his mouth.

She laughed. “Yeah, right. Like I want you holding up my naked body while I try to shower.”

“I didn’t really mean that the way it sounded.”

“How else could you mean it?”

“Um, I guess, I, um, don’t know. I just want to do something to help,” he finished in a rush.

“The sentiment is appreciated, I guess.”

“Well, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before. Several times, in fact,” he added, digging a deeper hole with each spoken syllable.

“You don’t have to remind me, Draco. I know,” she affirmed. “And just how many times have you seen me naked, anyway?”

“Four,” he answered, too quickly for her comfort.

“Geez, are you keeping track?” she accused.

“Well, not specifically, but it’s all been very recent, so it’s, um, easy to remember.”

“Yeah, so what’s one more time?” she scoffed.

“Right,” he answered, taking her remark at face value.

“Draco!”

“What?”

“You are such a… a… guy!” she concluded.

“Um, yeah.”

“Oh, Draco,” she said through a breath, a sudden thought hitting her. “That’s a very normal guy reaction. Maybe the potion is almost worn off,” she suggested hopefully.

“Wow. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“How are you feeling otherwise? Any headaches, muscles hurting, shakes, chills?”

“No, I actually feel pretty good this morning,” he observed.

“No desire to chop me up into little pieces and feed me to the giants?”

“No, not a one.”

“No burning need to assault me or beat me up?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Well, okay, then,” she finished.

“’Okay’ what?”

“I wasn’t agreeing to anything, just acknowledging and noting the lack of symptoms this morning. They’re really just about gone, from what you’ve described. I'm starting to feel like it's a little safer to be around you.”

“Granger, I think it’s fair to say that it’s been nearly three days since I did anything remotely close to harming you.”

“I’ll acknowledge that, Draco. But three days of simple human kindness doesn’t necessarily make up for years of trying to kill me.” Her tone, though her words were damning, was wry, not accusatory.

“Yes, well, five of those years have apparently been spent under the influence of potions and spells that are no longer in my system, and I don’t recall trying to kill you in the first five years of Hogwarts,” he noted.

“You do have a point there. I guess it really was only after you were ‘under the influence’ that you went from a simple git to a… something else.”

“How many boys from age eleven to sixteen don’t have a fair amount of git in them?” he pressed.

“Another fair point, I’ll grant you,” she answered, amused at the reasonably astute observation.

“So, do you want my help or not?”

“With what?”

“Don’t be dense, Granger. Getting into the shower,” he reminded her.

“Oh, that.” She paused for a moment, considering her options. She desperately wanted a hot shower; it had, after all, been at least a week since she’d had one. Malfoy was correct in that he had already seen her naked, and had tended to her injuries at least twice without causing any further harm. There was the issue of basic dignity and privacy, but they had shared so many ridiculously intimate things already that it had seemed a pointless argument.

“Fine, but there will be guidelines,” she announced.

“Fine, what?”

“Now who’s being thick? Helping me into the shower, you daft git.”

“So you’ve decided I’m trustworthy after all?” he prompted.

“Well, more trustworthy than you were a few days ago, certainly.”

“So what do you want me to do, and not do,” he urged her to continue.

“Carry me into the bathroom, where I’ll get undressed. I’ll wrap a towel around myself. Then, you can start the shower and get me into the shower stall. You’ll stay outside the shower, but in the bathroom just in case I need you. When I’m done, you’ll hand me back my clothes and I’ll get dressed. Then, you can carry me back to the sofa.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” She seemed surprised that he hadn’t wanted to debate any of her demands.

“Yeah, okay. What do you expect me to argue about?” He smirked.

“Well, fine, then. Let’s get it over with.”

He shrugged and moved to the side of the bed to lift her, a now-familiar act. He carried her to the bathroom where he gave her a moment’s privacy to undress and wrap herself in the threadbare bath towel. When she called out that she was done, he reentered the bathroom and turned on the taps in the shower, regulating the temperature so that she wouldn’t be scalded.

“Water’s just right. Shall I get you in now?”

She nodded her agreement and tugged the towel more tightly around her torso as he wrapped his arms around her barely covered thighs and unclothed shoulders. He set her gently into the shower stall and closed the curtain.

She handed the towel out to him and braced herself against the wall. The tile was cool, but much less so since the furnace had spread warmth throughout the small cottage. She angled the shower-head to that she was under the spray without having to move away from the relative safety of the wall, and thoroughly wet her matted hair. Without shampoo, it could only get so clean, but it would undoubtedly be better than its current state. She rubbed, scrubbed, cleaned, and rinsed her body as well as she could and then rested for a few moments under the soothing pulse of the hot water, thinking that she’d felt better than she had in a long time. She took inventory of the bruises that were finally beginning to change from livid purple to sickly green. She supposed that constituted healing.

Outside the shower stall, Draco was stunned to find that the light shone through the plastic curtain in such a way that it silhouetted Granger’s every shape and move. He tried to look away, but was drawn to the vision inexorably. It seemed that he was just a guy, after all. He deliberately covered his eyes with his hands, finally intent on keeping his promise.

He was shaken from his stupor when he heard her call for her towel and clothes. He handed them to her through the side of the curtain and waited until she indicated she was finished. He swept the curtain open and lifted her into his arms without a word, taking her to the sofa and settling her in place.

“Thanks,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Guess not,” he mumbled. “My turn,” he announced as he dashed away to his own bathroom.

He desperately fought against the urge to slam the door shut in his haste to get to the refuge of the private space down the hall. He was breathing heavily, surprised at the visceral reaction he was having. He’d only seen her silhouette through a curtain, and he had become quickly and painfully aroused. This is _so_ not good, he thought.

Draco stripped off his clothes and dashed into the bathroom, turning on the taps. What he needed was a cold shower. What he wanted was a good wank. It was still a toss-up which option would win.

As the image of her female form flashed once more through his brain, the “guy” part of Draco grabbed control. The warm water sluiced in waves over his body as he stepped under the spray. He was beginning to feel a desperation that he hadn’t felt in more years than he could remember, a need to come just for the joy of it.

He took his penis in hand and was relieved to find that it was no longer sore and tender. That he hadn’t even thought about that in the last three days was testament to how asexual he’d been since their arrival, with the notable exception of his dream-induced orgasm. Experimentally, he stroked up and down, allowing the feeling to wash over him much as the water was doing. His erection responded, thickening and lengthening further under his firm touch. The visions behind his tightly closed eyes were of lovely, lush breasts and creamy thighs. There was no blood, no gore, no violence driving him on. His grip tightened and he tugged faster and harder, imagining a warm, wet mouth where his hand and the water now played. It wouldn’t take much more, he knew, and he rolled his testicles lightly with one hand while rapidly stroking with the other to gain more friction against the ridge under his glans. A half dozen more tugs and he was coming, a glorious release that was more satisfying than he could have possibly described; he tried with minimal success to suppress the deep groan that echoed in his chest. Thick, white spurts of semen fell over his hand and into the drain. He slumped against the tiled wall, thoroughly spent and strangely calm. His breathing slowly returned to a normal pace and rhythm.

Draco knew he had just had a major breakthrough, without being able to pinpoint exactly what it was; his brain was too fogged from his intense orgasm to process much rational thought. There had been nothing but raw, normal, sexual need in his response. Maybe he was finally free of whatever had consumed him for so long. He refused to think about that it had been the image of Granger that had spurred his initial reaction. It was purely incidental, he told himself. She was, after all, the only female that registered in his brain right now, having been so isolated together.

When his knees regained their ability to support his weight, Draco stood under the soothing spray of the shower head and scrubbed his hair and body. The contrast between this and the last shower that he had taken was stark. He resolved to never again step under a spray of frigid liquid, even if he needed to douse an arousal. Fuck it, he thought, what’s the use in that? He turned off the tap, dried off quickly, and pulled on his borrowed jeans and jumper once again. He walked out of the bedroom feeling loose and relaxed, and a smile lit his face. He was almost unrecognizable as the young man who’d landed angry and bloody in the same room just a few days earlier.

Hermione noticed the difference when he joined her in the sitting room. “Feel good?” she asked.

He almost choked on his reply. “What?” Did the bint have the ability to see through walls or something?

“The shower. Was the water still hot?”

“Oh, yeah. It was fine.” For some reason, he was hesitant to meet her eyes, afraid she’d see the truth of his earlier activity somehow. His cheeks reddened slightly with embarrassment at the thought, an odd reaction for someone who’d had such public and graphic sex so many times. Then again, his memory of those events was spotty at best.

“Must have been,” she noted.

“Huh?”

“Still hot. Your cheeks are flushed. You have to be careful not to scald yourself, with skin as fair as yours, I’d imagine.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s just too bad you couldn’t have found a razor.”

He shrugged, not wanting to engage in much conversation at the moment. Maybe I should have stayed in the bedroom for awhile. Let the afterglow wear off, he mused. Having had little experience with the sexual etiquette of self-pleasuring while holed up with a former enemy, he felt at a distinct disadvantage in how to handle the situation.

He was saved from further humiliation on that account by something that shocked and frightened them both. Someone was knocking on the front door. Their eyes met, and Draco rose from the seat he’d taken to stand between Hermione and the door. There was little either could do to protect themselves, but it was also possible that their visitor was not a threat. The only way to find out was to open the door, so he did.

“Draco?” a tall, thin, dark-haired man inquired. A woman who was vaguely familiar stood beside him. She had purple hair.

Hermione immediately recognized Ted and Nymphadora Tonks, and called out to them in greeting. “Ted! Tonks! We’re so happy to see you!”

“We?” Tonks echoed.

“Yes, Draco and me, obviously.”

“Draco Malfoy, I am Nymphadora Tonks, Ministry Auror, and under the authority awarded to me by the Wizengamot, you are under arrest for murder, rape, and multiple uses of Unforgiveable Curses,” she announced.

He stood there, looking a bit stunned but not moving or resisting her effort to magically bind his wrists.

“Tonks, wait a minute. There’s more to this story than you know,” Hermione urged.

“I know plenty, Hermione. And for now, I’d rather be safe than sorry. So Draco is officially in custody until my superiors tell me otherwise,” she retorted.

“But I’m one of his victims, and I say he’s not at fault,” Hermione argued.

“That will ultimately be for the Wizengamot to decide, but for now, we’ll be doing this by the book,” Tonks resolved.

“Well, before you take us anywhere, please fill us in on what’s going on out there. We’ve been stuck here for almost four days with no news. What’s happening? And how and why did we end up here?” Hermione pressed.

Draco was completely quiet, watching the by-play between Hermione and the woman he surmised was his only cousin. Wow, how weird, he thought. The man beside her – his uncle by marriage, he assumed – had only said his name when he’d opened the door, and had since been silent. He hoped that they’d have some answers for them. This not knowing was driving him insane.

“Before we get into any of that, do either of you need any medical attention?” Tonks asked, abrupt and professional in her manner.

Draco shook his head to indicate that he was not in immediate need.

Hermione was reluctant to speak bluntly, but answered Tonks with a nod.

“Should we move to a more private spot?” she asked.

“Yeah. That would be appropriate,” Hermione acknowledged. Her next move flabbergasted everyone else in the room: she lifted her arms, inviting Draco to lift her and move her to the bedroom.

He gulped and raised his magically bound hands, indicating that he was not in a position to help at the moment.

“Oh, Draco, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Forget it, Granger. Not a problem.”

She turned back to Tonks and stared between her and Draco pointedly. “Release his hands. I need his help.”

“Hermione, my dad can help you, or I can levitate you. You don’t need Draco to move you,” she reminded her.

“But I want him to help me. I trust that he won’t drop me. I hate being levitated. No offense, Ted, but I’d really rather that Draco help me.”

“Granger, what are you playing at? Just drop it. Let one of them help you,” Draco urged.

“Yeah, Hermione, what’s going on here? I was told that you were attacked and sexually assaulted by him. Why are you defending him so vehemently?”

“Well, that’s only partially true. Draco attacked me, but it wasn't really _him_. He’s been drugged and spelled, so it’s not his responsibility,” she stated with conviction. “Since we got here, he’s done nothing but take care of me, and I won’t have you treating him like a criminal.”

Finally, Ted Tonks spoke up. “Hermione, I’ve been aware for several weeks that Draco has been under the influence of compulsions and Imperius potions, and we recognize the legal implications of that. But we can’t take the chance that the antidote hasn’t worked,” he explained.

“What antidote?” Draco insisted, his eyes wide and shocked.

“The one your mother had been feeding you for about a week prior to your… adventure here,” Ted clarified.

“She’s alive? She’s really alive?” he pleaded, hope and fear warring for equal footing in his voice.

“Yes, Draco, she’s alive. She’s just fine, as is your father,” Tonks interjected.

“Look, we obviously have a lot to discuss, but I’d like to make sure that Hermione’s medical needs are addressed before we get into anything else, so can we please table this for ten minutes?” Tonks’ eyes bored into each of the room’s occupants in turn.

“Fine, but only if you release Draco’s bonds,” Hermione stubbornly insisted. “I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pigheaded, Hermione?” Tonks huffed. She turned to Draco. “I’ll release you, but only to get her cooperation. One funny move, and I’ll hex you into next Tuesday, got it?”

“In spades. I promise I’ll behave,” Draco vowed. He breathed a little easier as he felt the magical restraints fall away from his wrists.

“Now, will you please pick her up and move her somewhere so that I can do some healing?” Tonks whined.

“No problem,” he answered. To Granger, he confirmed, “Your room?”

“That’ll be fine,” she agreed.

When he had settled her onto the bed, Tonks joined them and instructed him to wait in the sitting room. “My father is also armed, so don’t try anything,” she warned once again.

“I told you I’d behave, and I will. Relax, Cousin Nymphadora,” he teased, a hint of a smirk appearing on his face.

Her eyes widened, and she commented, “So you do know who I am?”

“Thanks to Granger, yes. She’s filled me in on quite a bit in our time together.”

“Apparently. Well, get out for now. We’ll talk more in a few minutes, when I’m done here.”

When Draco departed, closing the door behind him, Tonks turned her attention to Hermione. “Where are you hurt? What do you need me to do?” she asked, all business but not without compassion.

“I need you to give Draco a break. He’s been through as much hell as I have, maybe more. So quit it with the hard-ass attitude, Tonks,” Hermione scolded.

Tonks rolled her eyes, and her hair turned bright orange, a sure sign of annoyance. “Look, I have to be sure he’s not going to flip out on us. My aunt has been very clear about what’s happened to him, and I feel for him, but you know I have a job to do, too.”

“I get that, but he is your only cousin. Lighten up a little, and you’ll get more cooperation from him. Trust me on this. I’ve come to know him pretty well in the last four days.”

“Fine,” she sighed with exasperation, “I’ll back off – a little – but for now will you please let me heal you? What’s wrong?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, both with a little pain and a bit of embarrassment. “I have a pretty bad tear in my vagina. It’s been bleeding off and on. And I think I might have a bruised or broken rib because it hurts when I take deep breaths. The rest is just simple cuts and bruises,” she answered, playing down the extent of those wounds.

Tonks’ lips tightened, but she held her tongue. “Let’s get the jogging pants off so I can repair the damage and stop the bleeding.”

Hermione followed the Auror’s orders and gingerly shifted to remove the fleece. She was now doubly glad to have had that shower. “I think the bleeding has stopped again for now.”

“Hermione, you need to open your legs. I can’t fix what I can’t see,” Tonks prodded.

Reluctantly, Hermione raised her knees and opened them, allowing Tonks the view she needed to locate the wound and seal it.

“The gauze was a good idea. I’m sure that went a long way to stop the bleeding,” she commented.

“Yeah,” Hermione replied. She figured it probably wasn’t a good idea to say much about how it got there.

“The wound seems to have sealed for the most part. There’s just a small section that appears to be reopened. You probably were moving around too much.” Tonks used her wand to cast sterilizing and wound-mending spells, and added a light numbing spell for good measure. “There. That should feel better. Now let me see about the rib.”

Tonks quickly, efficiently, and clinically tended to all of the wounds that were visible or that Hermione was able to describe. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later that she completed her work. “Is there… anything you want to talk about?”

“No. I’ll deal with that later. There’s too much else to get through right now.” Hermione swung her legs over the bed and stood, muscles shaking slightly but feeling much better than she had in over a week since her capture.

“Let’s go, then. There is a lot to tell,” Tonks agreed and turned to follow Hermione back to the sitting room.

Draco looked up immediately when the two women reentered the room. “Are you alright?” he asked, concern evident in his expression.

“Yes, Draco, I’m fine. No need to worry.” She smiled slightly to put him at ease.

“Good. I’m glad.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“So what have you two been talking about?” Hermione inquired.

“Uncle Ted was telling me that this cottage belonged to his parents. They used it many years ago for hunting trips and weekend getaways.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at his use of the honorific “uncle” but refrained from pointing it out. “Really? So how did we end up here?”

“He hasn’t gone that far yet. There are other pieces of news that are more important for now, anyway.” Draco nodded at his newly-discovered relative and encouraged him to resume his account.

“Yes, well, as I was just starting to tell Draco, the reason it took us so long to get to you is that the final battle broke out barely an hour after you were sent here. It’s been going on for days, but the resolution was reached a few hours ago. We got here as soon as we were able. Our presence here should be enough of a clue that the Light side has prevailed. Voldemort is dead. Harry is in rough shape, but we feel certain he’ll survive. Most of the Death Eaters have been captured or died in the final battle, but there is a handful on the run. We feel confident they’ll be rounded up in short order.”

“My parents?” Draco interrupted.

“Lucius and Narcissa are both fine. There is some astonishing news to tell you about your parents’ involvement in the war, and I’d normally leave it to them to share with you, but you need to understand the fundamentals for now,” Ted informed him.

“Where has my mother been all this time?” Draco interjected again.

“She’s been splitting her time between Hogwarts and our home for the last two years, working for the Light side along with your father. She’s been under heavy glamours and notice-me-not spells so that she blends into the woodwork. I’ve known about her defection since six months before her supposed death, but your father’s role was deeply under cover, and I only learned of that about a month ago. Lucius has been providing us with key information for nearly three years now, and his assistance has been pivotal in securing our victory. That has been confirmed by Albus.”

Hermione, having seen Narcissa at the Tonks’ home was not at all surprised with that news, but was thoroughly astounded about Lucius’ involvement. She had to know. “Is Lucius the one who was feeding clues to me about the identity and location of the last couple of Horcruxes?”

“He is.”

“Good Merlin above,” she breathed. She turned to look at Draco, who’d gone white as a ghost. “Are you okay?”

“I, uh, guess so. This is just a lot to take in,” he admitted.

“There’s more, if you want to hear it,” Ted offered.

“Of course!” Hermione answered for them.

“Quite some time ago, your parents began to suspect that you had been drugged or Imperiused and they began to investigate what might have been the source and method of your control. Through a series of odd events, they concluded that you had been fed chocolate truffles that were infused with powerful potions, possibly for as long as five years,” he told them, not missing the look that passed between the two young people. “Have you reached a similar conclusion?”

“Yes, just yesterday in fact. Draco has had a great deal of difficulty remembering things that have happened in the last few years, and we’ve had to slowly reconstruct key events,” Hermione confirmed.

“That’s not surprising. Another element of his control was apparently powerful memory charms and pain hexes. They were designed to make you forget the horrible things you did, and experience excruciating headaches if you tried to recall them. A disincentive, if you will,” Ted told Draco. “Your mother worked on an antidote to the potions for nearly two years. It took that long to decipher and deconstruct exactly what was in the potions and then build effective countermeasures that would address every potion element. It was all-consuming. Your mother thought of and worked on nothing else for all that time.”

Draco had to know for certain. He asked what he’d come to suspect through clenched teeth. “Was it Bella?”

“Yes,” Tonks confirmed. She shared a look with her father. “We’ll let your parents tell you more about that when you are reunited, later today, if we can arrange it.”

Draco felt the weight of the betrayal settle heavily on his shoulders. He dropped his face into his hands, feeling them tremble with an equal measure of anger and relief.

Hermione saw his distress and felt deep sadness for the young wizard’s trials. She knelt beside his chair and touched his knee, drawing his attention. She whispered, “We knew this, Draco. It’s not your fault; it never was.”

He avoided her eyes, but briefly squeezed the hand that she’d rested on the chair’s arm. “I know, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less,” he whispered back.

When their private moment was done, Hermione moved back to the sofa and sat beside Tonks, refusing to answer the question she saw burning in her friend’s eyes. This was between the two of them, and it would stay that way.

To divert their attention as much as to gain more information, Hermione repeated her earlier question. “How did we end up here?”

“Narcissa knew that what they were doing was obviously very dangerous, and she anticipated that either she and Lucius, or you, Draco, would have need of a safe place to hide out for at least a few weeks. I offered this cottage as a safe house, and we set up several safeguards to ensure that someone could survive here for a short time,” Ted answered.

“So you left the food, the wood, kept the electricity turned on? All of that on the off chance that it might be needed?” Hermione prodded, incredulous.

“Yes. We felt that it was more likely than not that someone in the family might have need of refuge before this was all done. I wish we could have done more, but we ran out of time.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question. How did we get here?” Hermione pressed.

“Ah, that. Yes, well, when Narcissa finally perfected the antidote, she knew that it wouldn’t be an instantaneous cure. Since Draco had been consuming the potions for so long, it would take several doses to remove it from his system. She went back to Malfoy Manor under heavy disguise and replaced the tainted truffles with her own version that she filled with the antidote. She made sure you had a steady supply of them, and even kept a trace of the addictive agent in them to ensure that you would keep eating the adaptation that would remove the original poisons from your blood and tissues.”

“Wait. Is she one of the women who was feeding those of us who were captured about a week ago?”

“Yes, she and Andy were looking out for you as best they could. They were both under at least four different glamour spells to keep their identities secret. Only Lucius knew who they really were. The problem was that the house was crawling with Death Eaters, and Draco was still not responding to the antidote. She was… very upset about what happened to you, Hermione, but they had to get you out of there immediately. The Dark Lord was on his way, and the danger to both of you was well beyond the risk of sending you away, even considering what…”

“What I did to her,” Draco interjected, sounding bitter and disgusted.

“Yes, even that,” Ted concluded with a deep sigh.

“Look, Draco, your mother knew that you’d had six doses of the antidote. She and Dumbledore had calculated that it would be enough. She hoped that your behavior would start to moderate, at least, and that you might be aware enough to listen to reason. She and your father created a Portkey that sent you here with Hermione because she didn’t think that either of you would survive a confrontation with Voldemort, and she thought that you might stand a fighting chance of surviving here together. She had faith that you would come out of your Imperius soon enough to help Hermione; she prayed that the good and gentle son she once knew would reemerge when the chips were down,” Tonks shared.

“It seems she was right,” Hermione murmured.

“What was that?” Ted asked.

“It was a little dicey when we first got here. I was unconscious for several hours. Draco’s instinct, though, was to take care of me. He cleaned me up, treated my wounds as well as he was able, helped me to get dressed, even cooked for me. The whole time, he was fighting blinding headaches and nasty withdrawal symptoms. His first concern has been my welfare. I want that known,” Hermione stated firmly.

“Hermione, it’s, uh, natural after awhile to feel some kinship with someone who’s been your only source for care, even if that attention is not entirely wanted. It’s called ‘Stockholm Syndrome,’ where captives begin to identify with their capt…”

“Tonks, I know what Stockholm Syndrome is; I’m not an idiot. That’s not what I’m talking about in the least. Draco and I are not about to enter into some lifelong relationship or dependency. We both know very well that he and I are like oil and water on numerous levels. I just recognize that he was not in command of his own actions. When that control was regained, his true nature began to reassert itself. And it seems clear that he’s not a bad guy. I just want what’s fair, and sending him off to Azkaban wouldn’t be justice, it would be scapegoating. I won’t stand for that.”

“Granger, I appreciate the sentiment, but even I can’t excuse what I’ve done. Why should anyone else?”

“Because you’re always so hard on yourself. You can’t take responsibility for things that you’ve had no control over. It’s just foolish.”

“Look who’s calling the kettle black, Hermione. The two of you are cut from the same cloth on that account,” Tonks needled.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, and realizing she had no cogent argument, shut it again.

“Fine. Whatever. So what happens now?” Hermione asked.

“Well, we need to close the house down again, and then get the two of you back to London.”

Draco and Hermione shared an amused glance, both thinking about the fact that they’d only just figured out how to turn the furnace on and it would be mothballed again momentarily. Draco shrugged, then offered his help. “What can I do?”

“Oh, nothing,” Ted replied. “I can get everything handled with my wand in a minute or two. Just gather up anything you want to take with you.”

“Just the clothes I’m wearing,” Hermione indicated.

“Do you want the trainers I found?” Draco asked her.

“Oh, yeah, that’s probably not a bad idea,” she agreed.

He retrieved them from the bedroom and handed them to her while Ted and Tonks made their way through the house, using a combination of wand flicks and switch flips to return the cottage to its original condition. By the time her footwear was tied, they had completed their tasks and the small group was ready to leave.

As Ted was reaching for the door handle, it appeared they’d need to leave the building to Apparate. Draco spoke as they moved toward the exit, “Could I please have just a minute alone, with Hermione?”

Tonks looked at the young woman, seeking her assent. She nodded, and Ted and Tonks stepped onto the porch to await their two charges.

Hermione’s knees suddenly felt a little shaky and she sat on the sofa. Draco moved near her, but didn’t sit beside her on the furniture; he knelt on the floor at her feet and took one of her hands in his.

He was clearly struggling with what he wanted to say, and made two attempts to vocalize before he was able to form real words. “Granger, Hermione, I can’t begin to tell you how badly I feel about what I did to you. I know you said you thought you might be able to forgive me someday, but I know I’ll never be able to forgive myself. I know you don’t like me, or trust me, and that’s to be expected. I just want you to know that I’ve come to respect you and your strength, and the good heart that obviously beats in you. How I could ever have considered purposely stopping that heart makes me sick. I’m not a good man, and I don’t know what will become of me when we leave here, but I hope that someday, when you think of what happened, that you’ll remember that I tried to do what was right in the end.”

There was a trail of silent tears running down Hermione’s cheeks as she listened to his wrenching apology. She squeezed his hand tightly and composed herself before she replied. “You’re wrong on two accounts, Draco. First, I know I will forgive you because I know the truth of what happened. And second, you are a good man. If not in this moment, you will become one because you want to overcome the horrors that were done to you. I don’t know if our paths will ever cross again, but I want to thank you for being brave enough to stay. You could have left me to die, but you didn’t. For that, I will always be grateful.”

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek lightly. They both stood, and she wrapped her arms around his neck in an approximation of a hug. He returned it, and they stood together for a moment, great sobs wracking the young man’s chest. She whispered in his ear, “Goodbye, Draco. I think that forgiveness won't be very long in coming at all.”

She released him, and walked out the door with him closely following, the enormous lump in his throat growing larger.


	29. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence in this chapter.

_**Present Day** _

When the young witch and wizard stepped onto the snow-covered porch, Hermione was not quite ready to leave. She turned to Tonks, who had replaced the magical bonds she'd removed from Draco earlier, and asked, "Where are you taking him?"

Tonks placed her hand on Draco's shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "We're going to the Ministry for now. He'll be detained in a holding cell there until a trial date is established. Lucius and Narcissa are waiting for us there."

"When do you think his trial will be?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Dumbledore has promised to expedite the process as much as he can. I'm guessing it will be no more than a week or ten days."

"I want you to notify me when that happens," she insisted.

"I will; I promise," Tonks vowed. "Dad will take you back to Hogwarts for now, but everyone has been gathering at St. Mungo's to check on Harry and a few others. You should also think about getting a once-over from a Healer. I'm a pretty good field medic, but I'm not as good as someone on staff at the hospital," she recommended.

Hermione nodded but said nothing. She turned to face Draco for a final time. "Good luck, Draco. I wish you well."

The young man was quiet, and his sobbing had ceased. "Thank you, Hermione. I wish you well, too. I'm so sorry." His voice broke once more on his final declaration, and with an echoing crack, he and Tonks were gone.

Hermione stared for a moment at the space where they'd stood, then shook herself into awareness. "Let's go, Ted." She placed her hand on his arm and they disappeared, leaving the cottage empty and deserted.

The scene at the Ministry was barely controlled chaos. Tonks presented a guard with her Auror credentials and she and Draco were allowed passage to the secured holding cells adjacent to the Auror Headquarters on Level Two.

Fear and apprehension were evident on Draco's face as he saw the other prisoners in their temporary chambers. He knew some of these men, and they were some hard-boiled characters. He felt Tonks' hand on his shoulder and heard her whisper into his ear.

"Don't worry, Draco. It'll be alright."

She escorted him to the very last cell in the row and opened the door, indicating with a nod of her head that he needed to enter. She saw and heard the gulp that he swallowed as he crossed the magical threshold, triggering the barrier that would prevent his exit. "Have a seat and relax for a minute. I'll see if I can pull a few strings and bring your mum and dad by in just a bit," she told him, giving him a supportive smile.

Draco turned to survey the sparsely furnished room. There wasn't much to see. A long, low bench covered by a thick mat that he deduced was supposed to be a bed hung from the wall to his right. In the left corner was a commode, and a small porcelain sink was affixed to the adjacent wall. He sat on the bench and stared at the floor. _How did my life get to this point?_ Draco wondered. _How will I survive this? Do I deserve to survive this? How will I ever know what I've really done? Will not knowing slowly drive me insane?_ Much like had happened several times at the cottage, question after question swirled through his brain and Draco couldn't help but think that many of them would never have an answer. He'd never felt so isolated and alone.

He couldn't have said how long he sat in the cell, contemplating his fate, before his cousin appeared again at the door. He rose to greet her. That was when he saw his parents over her shoulder, his mother's eyes filled with tears and his father looking drawn and tired. His knees gave way and he fell to the floor, thoroughly overcome with emotion.

Draco felt his father's strong arms grasp his own and lift him from the cold stone surface. He was instantly enfolded in an embrace by both of his parents. He heard his mother's voice in his ear telling him that everything would be alright, that he shouldn't worry. He was still coming to terms with the fact that the woman he'd thought dead for two years was actually standing here with her arms around him. To hear about it was one thing, to experience it was another. He felt a kiss dropped on the top of his head and a large hand rubbing circles on his back, providing a moment of comfort in his anguish. It had been so long since he'd had affection from his father that it felt like he'd stepped into a time vortex. In an instant, he was seven years old again.

"Draco, mon chou, look at me," Narcissa finally commanded.

He tried to focus on her face but it was difficult through his veil of tears. "Mère, is it really you? I thought you were dead. Are you really here?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I am really here. We'll have time later to talk about all of that. We just want to make sure you're alright."

"No, Mère, I'm not alright. I'm not sure I'll ever be alright again," he confessed through his ceaseless weeping.

The sight of his son in such pain was choking Lucius Malfoy. If he could, he'd kill the witch who did this to him all over again. He set his jaw to keep his emotions in check. His wife and son didn't need him falling apart now. He would do what he could to be their strength.

Narcissa enfolded her son once more into an embrace and gently nudged him to sit beside her on the bench. Lucius took his place on Draco's other side and reached behind his son for his wife's hand. She looked over his head at her husband, sharing her sadness at Draco's distress. She kept whispering words of comfort, speaking to him in French as she'd done when he was a baby. "Je promets, tout sera bien."

"Draco, we do have a few things we need to discuss and I need you to focus. Can you do that for me?" Lucius spoke up, not wanting to squander the limited time they'd have together this morning. There would be time later for comfort. Practical matters had to be handled at the moment.

"Oui, Père, Je comprends."

"Très bien, mon fils," Lucius praised, placing a warm hand on Draco's shoulder. "You have probably heard some surprising news from Nymphadora, and we wanted to be sure you understood exactly what's happened and what will happen over the next few days."

"Oui, Père. Dites-moi."

Lucius was a little concerned at Draco's reversion to French. It had been his first language as a child, but they rarely spoke it at home any longer. It was an indication of how truly, deeply troubled the young man was. He decided to refrain from speaking in French himself, and thus to subtly encourage Draco to answer him in English. He needed the young man in the here and now.

"You've obviously seen that your mother is alive and well. We will explain the reasons for deceiving you about that later, but what you need to know is that it was ultimately done for your protection. Your cousin has also told you that your mother and I have pledged our true allegiance in the last three years to the Light side. The reasons for this are complex, and we will share them with you once all this unpleasant business is concluded."

Hearing his father's unruffled, rational voice seemed to calm Draco a little and his tears slowed. He swiped against his wet cheeks with his sleeve and his mother wordlessly produced a handkerchief from her pocket. He didn't seem to mind the lace trim. He nodded his thanks and returned his attention to his father.

"You understand that the Ministry has no choice but to bring charges against you for the actions that you took?" At Draco's short nod he continued. "We have a powerful defense for you, Son, and for that reason you shouldn't worry about the outcome. It's not likely that you will be sentenced to a term in Azkaban and you most certainly won't be kissed."

"But, Père, how can there be any defense? I did do all the things they're accusing," he confessed.

"The law views it differently, Draco. You cannot be held culpable for crimes committed while under the influence of Imperio and compulsion spells. That doesn't mean that there might not be some price to pay, but it's almost certain that Azkaban will not be your fate."

Draco shivered at the thought. His brain comprehended his father's words, but his heart felt so guilty. He felt the need for penance; he couldn't reconcile the idea that he should be completely absolved of his sins.

"You must understand that we've gathered conclusive proof of what, who, and how you were drugged and manipulated. Albus has been involved in our search for answers since the very beginning, and he has kept meticulous records of everything that's been done and every discovery made. The evidence is incontrovertible. He will testify on your behalf when you come to trial, and he's used his position on the Wizengamot to ensure that your wait for a court date will be minimal. We're hopeful that it will be before the end of the week."

"After everything I did at Hogwarts and to subvert his goals, he's willing to speak for me?" Draco asked, incredulous.

"More than willing. He's eager to do it," Narcissa offered.

"But why?"

"Because he can't bear to see another young life destroyed by Voldemort and his twisted agenda," Lucius stated.

"And because he sees the value in you, Draco. You were such a bright and promising student before that… witch dug her claws into you. We've been working with him for three years, Draco, and he's hopeful that the change of heart we've had will help you to find a new path in life. You were effectively stolen from us at the age of fifteen and we share a large part of the blame in not realizing what was happening. But we can take you back into our hearts and our home, and help you to build the life that you should have had. Now we need you to believe that you deserve it," his mother pleaded.

Draco was silent for a few moments, mulling over what his parents had told him. He was astounded at what he'd learned. His father's defection from the Dark Lord was as unexpected as discovering that his late mother had been faking her death. He'd always thought that Lucius Malfoy was firmly in Voldemort's camp. He had to acknowledge that his father was, without doubt, a consummate actor, if all of this was true. He needed to understand.

"Why, Father? I need to know. Why did you turn away from the Dark Lord?"

Lucius glanced at his wife, looking for moral support in having this difficult conversation. He found it in the squeeze of their joined hands behind Draco's back and the barest nod of her head. "There were many reasons, Draco, but the most important among them was for you and your mother. She helped me to see the folly, hypocrisy, and futility of what the Dark Lord was trying to achieve. The world is changing and what he wanted was to take us backwards in ways that were completely unsustainable and impractical. Once I understood and embraced that part of the argument, it didn't take long for me to also see the evil in it, particularly in his methods and tactics. While I admit that I've not hesitated to bloody my hands in the past, I couldn't let that happen to either of you, not when his goals were unachievable. There was no logic or true purpose in it, and above all, I am a practical man. It's been three years since I vowed to help to bring Voldemort down and I've never regretted that decision."

"But you stood beside me at raids and revels, Father, and you never said a thing. I don't understand," Draco argued, unable to reconcile his flash memories with what his father was telling him now.

"That's true. And to maintain my cover, I needed to do some things that I came to find horribly distasteful. You may not recall it because of the memory spells you were under, but there were many times that I was merely an observer. Your mother's feigned illness was also part of our plan; it allowed me some flexibility when it appeared that she required my care and tending."

The young man was quiet again as he absorbed what he'd been told by his father. This was making his head spin.

"Please, Father, I need to know something else," he begged, eyes making direct contact with their exact copy mere inches away. "What happened that last day at the Manor?"

Lucius felt his throat constrict. He'd hoped to avoid talking about what they'd witnessed and the aftermath of Voldemort's arrival until Draco's fate was settled. He decided to try to stall that conversation. "There will be time to talk about that later, Son," he hedged.

Draco, however, would not be deterred. "No, Father, this is important to me. Please."

Hearing his son's desperation, Lucius relented. "This will not be easy to hear, Draco. It was not a good day for anyone," he warned.

"Father, very little that I've heard today had been easy to take. What's a little more?" he reasoned.

Lucius released his wife's hand with another squeeze and stood from his seat on the bench beside his boy. He began to pace the small cell, considering how much editing he should do. Draco deserved to know the truth, but he wondered whether he was emotionally and mentally stable enough to handle it. His son seemed so incredibly fragile. Lucius couldn't recall having felt so protective of him since he was a babe in arms. He resolved to be honest but vague where possible. He would only elaborate if pushed.

"That day was actually the culmination of a series of events that began about a week earlier. As you already know, your mother had been working for many months on perfecting the antidote for the potions you'd been consuming. On that day, she had finally proved with multiple tests that the work she'd done had been successful, and that there were not likely to be any adverse reactions to the antidote itself. The last thing that needed to be done was to infuse the new potion into the same kind of chocolate truffles that you'd been eating. We were able to secure some assistance there from Florean Fortescue, who delivered five dozen exact reproductions of the confections within twenty-four hours. Your mother then infused the sweets with the antidote and had Albus contact me so that we could put the next phase of the plan in motion.

"We had to get her back to the Manor so that she could monitor how you were reacting to the new mixture. Depending on the progress she saw, she would make some adjustments to the dosages and so forth. Everything was going reasonably well for the first two or three days, then you went out on a raid and captured a handful of Dumbledore's people, including Miss Granger. You probably don't know that she and your mother had met a few times, and your mother had developed a fondness for the young woman. You, however, seemed to have a special level of animosity towards her. We believe that your vehemence about the girl was being directed by your … by Bella. You personally interrogated her several times and showed extreme frustration and violence when she was either unwilling or unable to answer your questions. Your mother and your Aunt Andy kept sneaking in and putting healing potions in the prisoners' food to minimize any long-term damage, because you eventually started taking out your anger on all of them. We now believe that the tainted potions and spells were actually warring with the antidote for dominance. That was causing you to be even more … enthusiastic in your attacks than you typically had been.

"She also kept feeding you the antidote, but we weren't seeing any evidence of it having an effect. Your mother was beginning to worry that she had failed and that additional harm might be done to the people you had recently captured. We went to Albus and reworked the calculations one more time. We discovered that it was not likely to see an actual change until the last of six full doses was administered, and that would not happen until the next day. To complicate matters, we knew that the final offensive was about to be launched and time was not on our side.

"That final morning, your mother made sure that truffles were included with your coffee and croissants. You ate them but they do take time to get into the bloodstream and you decided that it was the perfect time to have one more go at Miss Granger to try to force information out of her.

"You had a burst of extreme anger and she bore the brunt of it. When you sealed both of you into that cell, your mother and I worked for nearly thirty minutes before we could break through. Unfortunately, it was too late to prevent much of the damage from happening and we were…distressed to discover her condition when we opened the door. We'd received word only fifteen minutes earlier that the Dark Lord would be arriving to question her himself. He was also not pleased with your lack of results and we feared that neither of you would live to see nightfall. So, we hastily grabbed the cloak you'd discarded and made a Portkey. We threw the cloth over the two of you, sending you to the Tonks' cottage barely two minutes before Voldemort arrived in search of you. We told him that you had Apparated away with your 'prisoner' and that you were investigating some intelligence that you had developed from questioning her. It was the only thing that saved us all in that moment."

Draco had listened without comment while his father recounted the sequence of events that preceded his arrival with Hermione at the cottage. His hands had started to tremble as he realized a number of truths. Hermione had been targeted by Bella through him. He'd been used as a tool, over and over again. His mother was fond of Hermione and he had repeatedly hurt the young witch, certainly causing his mother additional distress because of that. Oh, Merlin, he thought. His mother knew exactly what he had done to Hermione, had certainly heard his attack through the door, and may have even seen the final stages of it. He started to shake and take great, gulping breaths. In seconds, he had worked himself into hyperventilating and his frantic parents, relieved of their wands for security purposes, stared at him and each other, not knowing what to do.

"Nymphadora!" Lucius called. "We need your help!"

She appeared at the door in seconds and peered into the room to see her young cousin in great distress. Fortunately, it was not the first time she'd seen such a reaction and she quickly cast a spell that slowed Draco's breathing and increased his oxygen flow. It didn't take more than a moment for his labored breathing to return to normal.

The young man, however, was still in a horrible state. He'd begun to weep again, and tried with minimal success to say something to his mother. On his third attempt, he made himself understood. "Mère, I want to die, knowing that you saw what I did to her."

Narcissa was shocked. She didn't know how to react to such a dramatic and startling pronouncement. She did the only thing she could think of as his mother: she hugged him and told him she loved him. As her rational brain processed what he'd said, she realized she needed to respond more specifically, lest he think she didn't reject the idea. She placed her hands on his face and forced him to look at her. "Draco, listen to me and listen carefully. It may have been your body that attacked Hermione, but it was not your soul. You are not responsible. I'm sure that Hermione recognizes that, too. I'll not hear another word of you taking the blame for something that was caused by the insanity of your aunt and her husband."

Draco heard her words, but he was struggling mightily with the concept. He now knew for certain what he had feared to be true: his mother had been an eyewitness to his brutal rape of Hermione Granger. He closed his eyes, refusing to meet his mother's gaze.

"Draco, Hermione is alright now, isn't she?" Narcissa asked the question to which she already knew the answer.

He shrugged in response.

"Your cousin told me she'd been healed and was feeling fine. Is that not true?" she pressed.

"No, it's true," he murmured.

"And I'm sure that you and Hermione had lots of time to talk while you were at the cottage, correct?"

He shrugged again.

"Hermione is a very smart woman, you know. I'm quite certain she helped you figure out what was happening. Didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"What was her conclusion about your behavior? What did she say to you about it?"

"She said it wasn't my fault," he conceded without conviction.

"What else?"

"She told me that she forgave me, Mother." He stood abruptly and wrenched away from her embrace.

She and Lucius watched as he took over the activity of cell-pacing from his father.

"But don't you see? That makes it worse! How can I forgive myself for doing something so horrible to such a good woman? And that you witnessed it is just too much for me to bear. I don't deserve her forgiveness, yet she gave it to me anyway. How can I accept that? How can I live with that?" Draco begged for an answer that didn't exist.

"Draco, all of us have been victimized by the things that my sister and her husband did. Hermione was just the latest target. Your father and I have lost two years where I chose to live in shadows to find a way to stop the horrible harm that was done to you. That was my decision and I did it with my eyes wide open. But you have to understand that you were the most harmed of us all. That woman stole your life from you for five long years. You were victimized by her, but don't live the rest of your life as her victim. You must decide to put the past behind you, where it belongs, and live as the man you choose to be. That is your best revenge against Bella, and the best tribute you could pay to your father, to me, and to Hermione."

Lucius watched his wife as she spoke to their son. He thought she'd never sounded so passionate, so genuine, nor looked as beautiful as she did in that moment when she was fighting for Draco's soul. He barely heard the whispered words that their son spoke in reply.

"That's was she said, too."

"Who, love?"

"Gra… Hermione. She told me that I had to forgive myself and live my life as the good man I was meant to be. How do I know, though?"

"How do you know what, Draco?"

"That I was meant to be a good man. I don't know how to be a good man."

It was his father who chose to answer. "The fact that you have the ability to ask the question and that you are feeling such great pain at having caused pain to others is what proves it, Son. If you can follow your heart down that path, you will be well on your way. Our faith in you, and Hermione's forgiveness, will not be misplaced."

Draco shook his head slowly, but there was no way for his parents to interpret what that meant. The young man was still too stunned, too traumatized to have any idea what potential he could find in himself. Inside him were a broken heart and a damaged soul that had a long way to go before they could begin to heal.

Among the numerous terrifying thoughts that were flowing through Draco's brain was the possibility that his warped aunt was not yet done with him. No one had yet mentioned her fate in the final battle and the thought that she might be out there somewhere, intent on reclaiming him for her own twisted purposes, was paralyzing. If his parents, two of the most capable magical people he knew, had not been able to protect him from her before, what chance did he stand alone? He was no novice, but he had not even finished his schooling. He was, by comparison, an untrained, untested wizard. So much of his war experience had been driven by anger and guided by Bella's manipulation that he didn't really know the limits of his own skill. He had no idea what he'd be up against when he had to face her again.

He'd been silent for a few moments and it was clear that there was something specific on his mind. His mother decided to probe.

"Draco, we know that you've had to absorb a lot today, but please let us help you. What's troubling you, dear?"

"What's not troubling me, mother, would get you the significantly shorter answer," he observed. He paused for a moment before continuing. "What will I do if Aunt Bella comes after me? I'm sure she won't be happy that I'm no longer under her control, and as much as I'd like to rip the perverted bitch to shreds, I doubt I'm capable of taking her on right now."

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged glances, and she nodded to him. He put his arm around his son's shoulders and steered him to the bench, sitting beside him. "You will not need to worry about that, Draco, because Bella and Rodolphus did not survive."

While Draco breathed a great sigh of relief, his parents had a silent debate with their eyes over how much – if anything - to tell their son about the ignominious demise of his aunt and her husband. If he had no curiosity, they'd keep the circumstances to themselves. They'd follow his lead.

"How? What happened?" he wondered.

The disappointment on Narcissa's face that they'd have to discuss this was clear. She tried to deflect his questions. "Does it really matter, dear? They're gone and they can never hurt us again."

"Your mother is right, Draco. How they died is immaterial. Just know that we are both one hundred percent certain that they are gone. They lacked the skill to make Horcruxes, so they will not be resurrected. I saw to the disposal of their bodies personally and there was absolutely nothing left of them to reconstruct. Their time on this earth is forever finished."

Draco seemed satisfied with his father's reassurances and he let it drop. As long as his father was sure that the thoroughly wicked woman would never again have the opportunity to harm anyone, he would be satisfied.

"Fine. I'm glad to hear it," he said. No one would begrudge the man this small bit of unkindness.

"Draco, we can't stay much longer. Your cousin has already pulled more strings than I can count to allow us to see you. What else do you need?"

"Have you secured a solicitor to defend me?" Draco wondered, practical thought regaining a hold.

"Of course, and with Albus' testimony and that of a few additional witnesses, we feel quite confident in a favorable outcome."

"Yes, Father. Will I see you again before my trial?"

"I'm quite sure. I will be speaking with Albus as soon as we leave here, and I'll return no later than tomorrow morning with as much information as I can. I'm hoping that he will have news by then about the date of your trial."

"Thank you, Father."

"You must be exhausted, dear. Why don't you stretch out and get a little rest? Nymphadora has told us that they will be keeping you here, and that she will look out for you during your stay. You should be perfectly safe."

"Yes, Mother. I am quite tired. Maybe a little rest will help me clear my head."

"Good. We'll see you in the morning, dear. I love you," Narcissa said as she reached out to hug him.

"I love you, too, Mother," Draco mumbled into her shoulder.

Lucius did not speak, couldn't, if truth were told, but wrapped his arms around his wife and son and pressed his lips against the younger man's forehead. After a moment he turned toward the door and called for his wife's niece, who opened the magical barrier for them to pass. They crossed the threshold without looking back; it would have been impossible to leave otherwise.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lucius and Narcissa had returned to Malfoy Manor with heavy hearts and turbulent thoughts. It had been incredibly difficult to leave their son behind, even knowing he was under the care and protection of his cousin. Their hope had been to bring him home with them but they'd been unable to convince Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Acting Chief Auror, that Draco was not a flight risk regardless of Albus Dumbledore's entreaties on his behalf. In retrospect, they had to acknowledge that they would have likely made the same decision were they in Kingsley's position. It didn't change their disappointment, however.

The Lord of the Manor wandered the sunlit atrium in search of his wife. This was always where shecustomarily took refuge when she was troubled and he felt certain that this day would be no different. He found her sitting in a cushioned white wicker rocking chair, nestled under a trellis of climbing vines that had been crossbred with pink tea roses. The fragrance was heady. He swallowed thickly as he remembered that this was the very chair in which she had nursed Draco and rocked him to sleep when he was a newborn. The summer he'd been born was warm but wet and she often sought shelter from June and July showers in this very spot with their tiny son. It had been more than twenty years ago, but he could see it as though it had happened just this morning: the boy's tiny pink mouth latched on to his mother's breast, wisps of white blond hair rustled by the magical breezes that kept the enclosure comfortable no matter what the weather conditions outside. He wished for a moment that he could return to those days and make different choices; their lives might be much less complex today.

Even a Time-Turner, however, could not help him undo all the horrors that had been wrought in Voldemort's name and he recognized the folly of wishing. They would have no choice but to move forward from here. None of them had clean hands after this conflict, but he recognized that they had all been fighting for survival. There had been one more stain, one that he and his wife shared, but this was one action about which he would never feel guilt or remorse. The victims would likely be listed as casualties of the war, but he and Narcissa knew better. He'd do his best to ensure that it remained that way.

"Mon coeur, are you alright?" he inquired as she finally noticed his presence.

"Oui, cher. I'm as alright as I'll be until Draco's fate is decided," she acknowledged with a sad smile.

"Fretting over that is not helping anyone, my dear. We have done everything possible to help him. Albus has vial upon vial of memories and all of his notes and records of the research you both conducted. That alone should be more than enough to ensure that he's not found guilty," he reminded her.

"I know, but I'm his mother and it's in my nature to worry."

"And I'm his father. I worry no less, I just hide it better," he revealed, pulling up another chair to sit beside her.

"I received an owl earlier, from Miss Granger," Narcissa noted.

"You don't say," Lucius exclaimed with surprise.

"Yes. I must admit that I was a bit taken aback by it," she allowed.

"What did she write?" he asked, his curiosity burning.

"It was quite a lengthy note. Would you like to read it?" she offered, producing the scroll from her pocket.

Lucius reached for the parchment and donned the reading glasses that he now always carried. He noted the neat, swirling script and slight upward angle of each line of prose.

_Dear Lady Malfoy,_

_I know we don't know each other well, but since we have met on a few occasions I felt it appropriate to correspond with you as we all recover from a most trying ordeal. I'm told by Professor Dumbledore that you were here at Hogwarts for months on end under heavy disguises. I wish I had known; I would have liked to get to know you better. Maybe someday we'll have that opportunity. He tells me that you and I are somewhat alike in our "dogged determination," as he termed it._

_I am writing primarily because I wanted you to know firsthand that I do not fault your son for what happened in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor, nor do I place any blame on you or your husband. I recognize that Draco was in no way in control of his own actions during my unfortunate stay at your home._

_My memory of the attack on me is a bit spotty, but I know from your niece Nymphadora's account that you and Lord Malfoy were actively trying to assist me when Draco and I were sealed in the cell. I also know that you heard and saw at least part of that sad event. Please, Lady Malfoy, do not let Draco wallow in self-recriminations over that. I know he was highly distressed at the thought that you might have seen his "crime." In my view, the crime was not his at all, but can be laid squarely at the feet of the Lestranges. Nymphadora has also informed me that they did not survive. I know she was your sister, but I cannot say that I am sad to hear of her demise. I imagine you have mixed feelings._

_I have also learned in the last few hours of the extreme risks and sacrifices both you and your husband took to help ensure a victory of Light over Dark, and I am personally enormously grateful for the help I received from Lord Malfoy in identifying and destroying certain artifacts that were critical to defeating Voldemort once and for all. Our success was only assured because of that assistance. I know that I would have faced many months of additional work, and many more lives would have likely been lost if it had not been for your husband's timely and precise aid._

_Please do let Draco know that I am healed and feeling fine. He need not worry. I have forgiven him, though my forgiveness was not really necessary because he should have no guilt for actions that he could not control. I want you to know directly from me that within minutes of his own awakening in that cold, lonely cottage, his first thoughts and actions were to tend to my needs. He fought against powerful negative influences and excruciating pain of his own to ensure that I was clean, warm, and even fed. He could have left me to die and he chose to stay for me. I told him and I will tell you: for that, I will be eternally grateful._

_I also told Draco that I thought he could be a good man, even with the horrible influences that shaped his behavior over the last several years. I firmly do believe that. So, I am offering now to testify on his behalf when he comes to trial. I will tell the truth about what happened, and that truth includes his great remorse and genuine efforts to ensure that I survived despite daunting odds._

_Thank you, Lady Malfoy, for reading my correspondence and please extend my deepest thanks and appreciation to Lord Malfoy for his invaluable assistance. I wish you and your family well._

_Respectfully,_

_Hermione J. Granger_

Lucius rolled the parchment and handed it back to his wife while pocketing his reading glasses. He seemed to be absorbing the import and impact of what he'd read.

"What an extraordinary young woman she is, Narcissa. I understand how you grew fond of her, even with your limited time together," Lucius observed.

"Yes. When you think about it, it's rather a shame, isn't it?"

"What, dearest? I don't understand."

"Under different circumstances, she would have made a wonderful match for our Draco, don't you think?"

"Indeed, she might have been."

"I expect that Draco will not be thinking of taking a bride for some time anyway, with everything considered. He'll need a few years to come into his own before he can think about starting a family."

"Quite so, dear, quite so," Lucius said, confirming her opinion. "You know, dear, Miss Granger was also probably right on another account that you and I have not really discussed."

"What's that, cher?"

"Your mixed feelings about your sister's demise."

"I have no mixed feelings on that in the least," she snapped, not eager to revisit the topic of her sister's betrayal.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. With everything that she did to our family, she was no real sister of mine. I'll feel no guilt and no sadness over what we did, with the possible exception that I wish we had done it sooner."

Lucius looked at his wife with wide eyes and a raised brow. It was uncanny how much she looked like her dead sister when she was angry; he'd certainly not tell her that, though. "Of course, dear."

"Have you given any thought to what we will tell Draco when he asks more questions about what happened to them?"

Lucius sighed. "I've thought of little else for the last couple of hours. He's always been insatiably curious and I fear the only reason he didn't press further today was that there were so many bigger issues with which to contend. It will not surprise me when he raises the subject again."

"What will we tell him, then?"

"As I see it, there are three choices. We can tell him exactly what we did – every last gory detail; he might find it gratifying on some level. We can give him an edited version of the truth. Or we can lie through our teeth and tell him they were killed by Dumbledore's Army in the final battle."

"Well, the one problem with the latter is that no one would be able to corroborate that story. They never made it that far, Lucius, and you'd not find a single witness to say that they were there."

"There is that," he assented. "So we need to tell him at least an edited version of the truth. Why wouldn't we tell him everything?"

She didn't know quite how to answer that. Did she want her son to know how utterly and completely they had destroyed the Lestranges? Would his respect for them be damaged by what they'd done? They'd been merciless and brutal, but certainly no more so than their victims had ever been. She reached a conclusion. "He's seen and experienced enough violence in his short life. I think he should not have to add any more drama and hate."

"So how do we deal with it?" Lucius pressed.

"Short of Obliviating ourselves? We remove our memories and lock them away somewhere that they'll never be found, and we tell him a greatly edited account. This is our issue, not his. He only needs to know that they can never hurt him again."

"Fine. I guess we're agreed then. Let's get it over with." Lucius extended his hand and Narcissa accepted it gratefully. She wasn't sure she could walk unaided at the moment. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked slowly together through the peaceful atrium to confront their joint memories of the day they'd together killed two killers.

Lucius' study was dark and cool in the late afternoon. He'd not spent much time there today and the fireplace had gone cold. He waved his wand to light the hearth along with several wall sconces. He guided Narcissa to the leather arm chair directly opposite his own on the other side of his large wooden desk. He turned to the locked armoire behind him and produced a tiny skeleton key from his waistcoat pocket. He breathed deeply and inserted the key into the lock, turning it clockwise and swinging the doors open. The large stone pensieve on the bottom shelf was heavy and ungainly, and he directed his wand at it to maneuver it magically out of its resting place. He brought it to a stop when it reached the desk, allowing it to settle with the faintest thump onto the oak surface.

Narcissa leaned forward with wand in hand and brought the thin piece of wood to her temple. She closed her eyes and withdrew the threads that represented her entire recollection of the events that ended Bella's and Rodolphus' lives.

Lucius watched as the tendrils swirled in the liquid suspension. He lifted his own wand and repeated his wife's action. By silent and mutual agreement, they joined hands and dipped their heads into the churning mist.

_The Dark Lord had left about an hour before and the tension level in Malfoy Manor had not abated one single iota. It was abundantly clear that big things were beginning to happen and had already happened. Narcissa was frantic over the fate of Draco and Miss Granger. The Portkey she and Lucius had created had activated barely one hundred seconds before Voldemort swept into the dungeons, a cadre of minions in tow. He had initially been enraged that the Granger girl had been removed from the premises. Only Lucius' quick thinking had saved himself and the "servant girls" – his wife and sister-in-law, Andy – from an immediate Avada or Crucio. The Dark Lord had departed after spending only a short quarter hour in their presence; it appeared he had other things that required his attention. To their own detriment, not all of his entourage left with him._

_When this opportunity presented itself, Lucius seized it; the likelihood of another such happenstance was slim, particularly with what he knew was coming in the form of a culminating offensive from Dumbledore's forces. The silent, wandless compulsion he placed upon his sister-in-law and her husband to stay behind was but the first poetic echo he would issue._

_The two were disarmed and separated from one another, then placed into cells on opposite sides of the dark, stone corridor. Silencing spells had ensured that their shocked, furious hollering went unheard. Lucius freed the remaining imprisoned Light fighters and turned them over to his wife and her other sister for healing and a quick meal. They would be fit and eager for battle in moments; that they'd been released by Lord Malfoy told them that there was something more to the story and they departed Malfoy Manor without causing any ruckus or damage. Once they'd gone, Lucius reset the property's wards to ensure they'd have no other unexpected or unwanted company. Not even the Dark Lord himself could gain access to the refortified country manse._

_The Malfoys hadn't really planned this, not to any great degree. Narcissa knew that her passionate, righteous anger would guide her hand and her magic. She felt reasonably certain, however, that her eldest sister would not still breathe when they were done with her. Another casualty of war, but the battlefield was decidedly smaller. Her son had been stolen from her and he would likely continue to pay some price for the remainder of his life; no one would expect him to emerge from the lengthy ordeal unaffected and unscathed. Narcissa stood outside the door to the cell where her maniacal sister was captive. She squared her shoulders and gathered her strength around her like a cloak. She opened the door, a binding spell already falling from her lips, and watched as Bella was magically attached to the limestone wall, now no threat to her. She lifted the silencing spell that Lucius had cast earlier, allowing her sister to speak._

_When Narcissa lifted the glamours and disguises moments later, her sister just stared, not certain that she believed what she was seeing._

_"Your eyes do not deceive you, Bella. I am very much alive," she answered the unvoiced question. "I have been waiting for two long years for this day."_

_"I don't understand," Bella replied flatly._

_"Don't you? It would seem terribly plain to me. I've been playing my own part in the fight, Bella, but my goal has been opposite yours. It's time to reclaim my life, my son, my world from the insanity that you and your zealots have spread. And it all starts with you, I'm afraid."_

_"You are a blood traitor? You dare reject the greatest wizard who has ever lived? You dare reject what Mama and Papa taught us?" Bella challenged her youngest sister._

_"I do. Everything you've been taught to believe is warped, twisted, and unsustainable. If your path were followed, there would be no wizarding world left in just fifty years. Tens of thousands of years of history and heritage gone, for the ego and shortsightedness of one fool. The fool you follow," she argued. "And the fool for whom you nearly destroyed my family. Why, Bella? Why did you do it?" Narcissa asked, her voice eerily calm and quiet._

_"Why did I do what, sister?" Bella taunted in her little-girl voice, a hysterical giggle escaping her throat._

_"Don't play dumb, Bella; it doesn't suit you," she observed._

_"I've done many things and I have many reasons, sister," the dark-haired witch hedged._

_"Each one more heinous than the last, no doubt. How did you lose your humanity, your soul?" the youngest Black sister wondered._

_"It was stolen from me twenty years ago, in a prison in the middle of the sea!" the elder one screeched._

_"No, it wasn't, Bella. Your soul was long gone before you were sent to Azkaban," Narcissa insisted. "The minute you sold out to that megalomaniac hypocrite, your soul was forfeit. He was wrong about the world then and he's still wrong today. Your precious Dark Lord will fall to defeat at the hands of a wizard one-quarter his age and with ten times the heart."_

_"Noooo!" she screamed. "My Lord will rule over all of you and he will erase blood traitors like you from our world," she seethed, pinning her sister with a glazed stare._

_"I have faith that the outcome will favor the Light, and Lucius and I will do what we must to provide even the smallest advantage," she foreshadowed._

_"Will you kill me, sister? Is your precious Dumbledore that important that you would destroy your own flesh and blood?"_

_"It's no less than what you've done, Bellatrix. You stole my son and tried to turn him into the same kind of twisted beast that you are. Why did you do that to him? Why did you do that to me?" she asked through tears that had begun to fall._

_"I claimed Draco for the Dark Lord," she asserted._

_"No, Bella, that was only a small part of it. You took him from us and made him do things, made him want things that no healthy, sane young man should want. He's my son, Bella, and he was not yours to claim, for the Dark Lord or for any other purpose. Why did you take him from me?"_

_"You selfish bitch!" she screamed. "You were always the precious one, the pretty one, the one who got everything she wanted. Well, I have news for you, Cissy: you got want I wanted, too. I wanted Lucius, but you wheedled your way into his heart with your flaxen hair and delicate face. I wanted a baby to give to the cause, but you were the lucky one. I wanted a beautiful home and money to burn. But, no, you had all those things, and I had nothing. I took Draco from you because he was available to take. I gave him to the Dark Lord because he wanted him for the fight. You were selfish and you wouldn't give him to us. So we took him."_

_Narcissa was speechless. Bella had been jealous of her? That's why she did it? That was…crazy. She hadn't been known for her grip on reality, not for more than two decades, but this? Narcissa shook her head to refocus her thoughts and reframe her anger. If she had been the only target of her sister's instability, she might have been able to find some pity for her, but the older witch had harmed her family. She would not allow that to go unpunished. Her stunned musing was interrupted by the entrance of her husband into Bella's cell. Narcissa noted a speck or two of blood on his formerly crisp white shirt._

_"And here is the other traitor, come to join us," Bella crowed in her childish sing-song._

_"You won't need to worry about that much longer, I promise," Lucius stated in his familiar patrician drawl. "You'll be… joining your husband shortly. In hell."_

_"What have you done to my husband?" Bella asked, her voice low and dangerous. It might have caused them concern had she not been so thoroughly bound and incapacitated._

_"I repaid him for the kindnesses he's shown to my family over the last five years." His manner had rarely seemed so cool, so composed. It was chilling._

_When his wife asked a silent question with the lift of her brow, Lucius moved closer to the bound woman, his proximity as threatening as his demeanor. "I gutted him like the animal he was and watched him watch himself bleed to death. Then I set his corpse on fire and let him burn to ashes." He opened his clenched hand and let a tiny pile of grey particles fall from his palm to the floor. "Say goodbye to your husband, Bella."_

_"Noooo!" Bella screamed._

_Narcissa showed no reaction to her own husband's pronouncement._

_"Do you know that he pleaded for his life? He begged me to heal him. Offered me his entire fortune, even. If it were more than I earn in any given week, I'd have considered it. Maybe," he taunted. "Then again, no amount of money could repay what you and he have done to my family. He had the nerve to offer to intercede on my behalf with the Dark Lord. How utterly laughable that one was, don't you think, Narcissa? In more than three years, that simpleton still hasn't figured out that his defeat will have been funded and facilitated in large part by me. Quite amusing, I daresay."_

_Narcissa, who had simply nodded in response to her husband's rhetorical question, watched the icy, livid man stalk the fly in their spider web._

_"Now it's your turn, Bella. You will pay for the transgressions you and your late husband committed against us. Shall you share the same demise as your Rodolphus, or shall we let the punishment fit the crime? After all, you were the blood relative who betrayed us so horribly."_

_Bella's screeching and yelling had been ceaseless and Lucius had tired of it. He cast a Silencio with the flick of his wand and advanced once more upon the hapless shrew._

_"I know where we'll start," he announced. "So that you'll never again have the ability to lie, your tongue will go first." He cast a dark spell that Narcissa had never before heard. The result, however, was unmistakable. The captive witch's tongue shriveled and turned black in her mouth. Her eyes went wide with fear and shock._

_"So that you'll never again wield a wand, you will forfeit your hands," he told her, casting a slicing hex that removed both appendages at the wrist. "Bleeding a bit, are we?" Lucius observed, as though the amputations were no more than nasty parchment cuts. He cast a spell that burned and cauterized the flowing wounds._

_Narcissa stood by and watched, silent as she observed the destruction of her eldest sister._

_"To ensure that you'll not walk the path of destruction again, it is necessary to remove your feet," he stated, using a spell that neatly removed her legs just below the knee. This blood he allowed to flow._

_"Since you've clearly got no use for it, I think I'll cut out your heart," Lucius whispered, wielding the final spell that cut her chest from shoulder to hip. He used his wand one more time to cast Evanseco, and her heart vanished from her ribcage. She was dead._

_Narcissa reached for her husband's hand. She was resolute as she raised her own wand to set the fragments of her sister's remains afire, creating a makeshift funeral pyre in the room. As the stench of burning flesh invaded her senses, she vanished the rest of it and marched out of the room, her husband's hand still firmly in her grasp._

The couple emerged from the pensieve still holding hands in the present much as they had in the memory they'd just viewed. It only struck Narcissa now that Lucius had cast no Unforgiveable curses. He'd been ruthless and brutal, but he had refrained from doing what the Dark Lord would have expected in that situation. It struck her in that moment that she wasn't quite sure which approach was more wicked. She'd feel no guilt, however, nor place any on Lucius' shoulders; the woman had received no less than she'd dished out and no more than she deserved.

Lucius retrieved the parallel memories from the stone vessel and sealed each of them in a separate crystal vial. These he placed inside a small locking compartment inside the armoire, which he then hid with multiple layers of masking and concealment charms. He returned the pensieve to the shelf in a reverse of the process he'd used to remove it and locked the cabinet once more, pocketing the skeleton key. He turned back to his wife and extended his hand. They left the study, resolved never to revisit those events again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Four days after Draco and Hermione were retrieved from the Tonks' family cottage, Lucius and his wife visited his temporary home in the Auror holding cells for the fifth time. On this occasion, they had important news to share. Albus Dumbledore had been true to his promise and had secured a trial date for their son.

Their meetings throughout the week had been brief and less emotional than their original reunion, but had still been filled with anxiety and fear. The young man had had enormous difficulty in reconciling his heart-felt guilt and remorse with his likely limited legal culpability. He was torn. Part of him wanted nothing more than to throw himself on the mercy of the court and pay a commensurate price with the brutality, breadth, and number of his crimes. The part of him that could still recall only a tiny fraction of those events rebelled against allowing his young life to be further wasted by a prison sentence for misdeeds he couldn't name or count.

Whatever he was feeling, Draco would be standing trial on the next day. He was nervous and quiet, and said little to reassure his parents that he'd be able to actively participate in his own defense.

Narcissa decided that it was better to keep Draco in the dark about some of the developments with regard to his defense witnesses. It was no use causing the boy more distress than he was already feeling. It wouldn't do to have him catatonic when called to testify. She and her husband were hopeful about the outcome, but the trial was not their only concern. Draco's mental health and stability were also at stake. They had no doubt that whatever the trial's result, Draco would likely need the help of Mind Healers for many years to come. When they took their leave of him that afternoon, with a promise to see him before he was brought before the Wizengamot in the morning, he'd become morose and silent once again.

None of the Malfoys slept particularly well on the night before the trial. Draco's dreams were haunted by unknown voices, screaming their pain and anguish. Narcissa had nightmares about her boy lost in a mist the thickness of London fog. Lucius tossed without rest, worried for both his son and his wife, should Draco's fate be less assured than he hoped.

The Ministry was crawling with reporters, witnesses, family members, and Wizengamot officials on the morning of the first Death Eater trials. It was testament to Albus Dumbledore's position of high regard that he'd been able to ensure that Draco's trial was assigned to the initial docket. There were three other trials to be heard within the next session, but Draco's was the highest profile. His father's previously secret long-term defection and aid to the Light side, meticulously documented and recorded by the former Hogwarts Headmaster, had caused a buzz unlike anything seen in the wizarding world for generations. His wife's return to the land of the living after her self-imposed faux death sentence was a near second. Add the three circumstances together and they rivaled a media circus worthy of Her Majesty dancing naked in Trafalgar Square.

Draco's solicitor had visited for the third time early that morning, reviewing the order of presentation and ensuring that he knew exactly how Draco would answer the likely set of questions from the Prosecutor. Barrister Marcus Phillips was a little over fifty years old and sported closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a matching mustache. His eyes seemed to shift between green and blue, depending on the robes he was wearing. The little bit of extra padding around his middle was testament to his love of French food and wine, with a particular nod to flaky pastries. He seemed jovial and lighthearted, but the man had a mind like a steel trap along with a sharp wit that ensured the targets of his barbs rarely understood that they'd been brutally insulted while he smiled at them.

Accompanied by Nymphadora Tonks, Barrister Phillips led his client, who'd been dressed in unassuming standard black robes, into the courtroom on Level Ten and escorted him to the Defendant's Box, one man bound at the wrists and the other laden with dozens of scrolls of evidence. As they settled into their positions, the bailiff was called to remove young Mr. Malfoy's restraints and the members of the Wizengamot filed in.

The gallery was filled with spectators. Most were curiosity-seekers, but there were those who felt they had a vested interest in the outcome of one or more of the trials being heard today. Some were relatives of victims; a handful of others had been wronged themselves. The remainder were close relatives of the accused, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy among them. Seated next to her sister, lending moral and emotional support, was Andromeda Tonks. To her right was her husband, Ted, who had retrieved the day's first defendant from his temporary forest refuge. Their daughter was on duty in her role as an Auror, and in an unexpected development, was told that she could be called to testify against her cousin, regardless of her vehement protests against the possibility. Witnesses were sequestered elsewhere until their testimony was complete, at which time they could join the gallery.

The prosecutor stood as the presiding official called the court to order, indicating his readiness to present evidence in the case of Ministry of Magic v. Draco Malfoy, suspected Death Eater. His opening statement catalogued a long and horrifying list of the felonious acts of which Draco had been accused: Use of Cruciatus, an Unforgiveable Curse – seventy-four counts, Use of Imperio, an Unforgiveable Curse – fifty-nine counts, Use of Avada Kedavra, an Unforgiveable Curse – twenty-eight counts, Murder by spell – twenty-two counts, Forcible Rape – thirty-eight counts, Physical Assault – one-hundred-seventeen counts.

Draco listened to the charges being read and realized that he recalled details of far fewer than one percent of the crimes with which he'd been charged. It was overwhelming to consider that he had, in all likelihood, actually committed each of these atrocities. He swallowed a gulp as he felt his throat constrict with fear.

Barrister Phillips, seeing the obvious misery of his young client, squeezed the man's shoulder lightly, hoping to offer some comfort and confidence. When he saw tiny beads of sweat forming on Draco's upper lip and forehead, he understood without offense that it couldn't possibly be enough.

The prosecutor, a wizard named Paulus Danburt, was of advanced age with snow-white hair and incredibly bushy eyebrows. He surprisingly called only three witnesses, one of whom was Auror Tonks, who was only asked to testify about the circumstances of Draco's "capture" at the cottage in the woods. Under cross-examination, she made it clear that he had not resisted, but had in fact been cooperative, contrite, and extremely remorseful over the misdeeds that he'd been told he'd committed, yet couldn't remember.

When it was Barrister Phillips' turn to begin Draco's defense, he began with an opening statement that his client would never forget, if for no other reason than the stark shock of hearing the total number of his crimes.

"Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot, you may think we are here today to try a hardened, cruel, and vicious offender. It is my duty and privilege to tell you that this is not the case. The young man you see before you today is as much a victim as anyone he purportedly harmed during his five years in apparent servitude to the Dark Lord. We will present incontrovertible proof with the testimony of three witnesses, all of whom have taken the optional doses of Veritaserum, that Draco Malfoy holds no responsibility for any of the three hundred thirty-eight felonies with which he has been accused."

"The Defense summons Draco Malfoy to the stand," intoned the bailiff as he read the instructions handed to him by Barrister Phillips.

Draco rose from his seat and stood before the witness chair. The bailiff waved his wand over his torso and confirmed aloud for the court, "He is under the influence of a full dose of Veritaserum. Expected duration of effect is one hour and thirty minutes. The witness will be seated."

Draco took his seat and nervously wiped his sweaty palms against the fabric of his trousers. He waited apprehensively for Marcus Phillips to approach. He relaxed slightly when the man surreptitiously winked at him, a gesture that reminded him of Professor Dumbledore at his most mischievous.

"Please state your full name for the record," Phillips requested.

"Draco Abraxus Malfoy."

"You have been certified by the bailiff as having consumed and placed under the influence of Veritaserum. Do you further swear and promise to tell the whole truth?"

"I do, upon a wizard's oath."

"Thank you, Mister Malfoy. Would you tell us what you remember about the last five years of your life?"

"Very little, sir," Draco began. He then recounted a couple of snippets of memories and gave a reasonably detailed account of the previous seven or eight days under prompting and direct questioning from his solicitor, but was remarkably unable to share any details or more than a handful of disconnected images of any single event.

"Are you unable to share any more details of your life during those five years, Mister Malfoy?"

"I am not. I have no additional memories."

"Thank you, Mister Malfoy," Phillips said with a sharp nod as he took his seat once again.

The Chief Warlock then announced, "The Prosecution may cross-examine the witness."

Paulus Danburt rose to face Draco and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you really expect us to believe that you have so little recollection of the events of your life for the past five years?" he challenged.

"Yes, sir. It's the truth."

"Why can you not remember? Were you Obliviated?"

"No, sir. To my knowledge, I have not been Obliviated."

"Then why can you not remember your own life?"

"I wish I knew for certain, sir, but I don't. I only know what I've been told, that I was under a series of spells and potion influences for a very long time. I don't know the details beyond that, sir."

After a half-dozen additional questions, Danburt had determined that there was no more useful information to be gained from the young man and had announced with an audible sigh of frustration, "No more questions at this time."

Phillips then called his next witness, Albus Dumbledore, to the stand.

"Please state your full name for the record," Phillips requested, as the elder man took his seat.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

"You have been certified by the bailiff as having consumed and placed under the influence of Veritaserum. Do you further swear and promise to tell the whole truth?"

"I do, upon a wizard's oath."

"Please tell us, Professor, how you are acquainted with the defendant, Draco Abraxus Malfoy."

"I have known Draco for just about ten years, since he enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at the age of eleven. He was in my charge from then until the school was closed approximately three and a half years ago."

"What contact have you had with the defendant since that time?"

"I have had little direct contact with Draco since then, but I have had indirect contact through his parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and through observation of his public activities during that time."

"How are you acquainted with the defendant's parents?"

"I was first acquainted with each of them when they enrolled in Hogwarts approximately thirty years ago. Of course, Lord Malfoy and I have had substantial contact for at least a decade due to his appointment to the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Additionally, Lord and Lady Malfoy have been instrumental undercover agents for the Light for more than three years."

This statement caused predictable murmuring throughout the courtroom's gallery, and the Chief Warlock tapped his wand on the dais, calling for silence.

"It was widely reported that Lady Malfoy perished two years ago of a disease. As we can see from her presence in the gallery today, that was clearly not the case. What do you know about that, Professor?"

"Objection, your Honor! What does Lady Malfoy's illness have to do with her son's crimes?"

"If I may, your Honor, this has direct bearing on our defense, as her disappearance and activities during that time are materially related to the defendant's claim of innocence."

"I'll allow it, but get to the point quickly, Barrister Phillips," the Chief Warlock warned. He turned to Dumbledore and stated, "You may answer the question."

"Thank you, sir. Lady Malfoy was my guest at Hogwarts during most of her feigned death. For more than a year prior to that, she had been passing information to me on behalf of her husband through her sister, Andromeda Black Tonks. It came to my attention early on that she intended to go into hiding, first to continue her undercover role in the war effort and second, to investigate suspicions she had about her son's behavior being magically influenced. I offered her refuge in the castle when she requested some assistance in the form of a potions laboratory to continue her research."

"What did you know about her research?"

"She shared her suspicions with me, as well as the results of her investigation as they emerged. I worked closely with her on some of the final elements of that research for several months."

"And what did your mutual research conclude?"

"We found irrefutable evidence that Draco had been forcibly dosed with a custom-made brew that delivered some rather nasty results."

"Would you tell the Wizengamot what those results were?"

"The potion combination was fundamentally a liquid form of the Imperius spell. It additionally greatly diminished his inhibitions for both violence and sexual activity, and it included several powerful addictive elements, the most insidious of which was a derivative of the Muggle drug, cocaine."

"Was there anything else that you found?"

"The packaging in which the delivery items were contained was charmed to activate specific compulsions and to reinforce obedience to the Potions Master who brewed the original concoction. There were also powerful memory charms that caused him to forget the things he'd done, and that caused terrible pain in the form of blinding headaches whenever he made any attempt to recall those events."

"What were the 'delivery items' you noted?"

"Chocolate truffles."

"Was there a reason for that?"

"It seems that young Mister Malfoy has a rather well-known penchant for sweets. That was purposely used to ensnare him."

"When did this happen?"

"We were fairly certain that it began when Draco was approximately fifteen years old."

"At that time, Draco was still a student at Hogwarts, was he not?"

"Yes, he was."

"Did you note any change in his behavior at that time?"

"Yes, in fact, we did. It was the topic of several staff meetings and faculty discussions. Young Draco underwent a fairly dramatic personality change at that time and we were all very concerned for his welfare."

"What kinds of changes did you and the Hogwarts staff observe?"

"He became violent at times, but we rather quickly put a stop to that. He was frequently disobedient to his teachers, which was unusual for him. He was often viciously caustic and rude. He began to verbally assault Muggle-born and Light-sympathizing pureblood witches and wizards. Though we were not able to prove it conclusively, we had strong suspicions that he had cast a Dark Mark over the Astronomy Tower on All Hallow's Eve that year."

"Did you attempt to discover what had prompted such drastic changes in the young man?"

"Yes, we made several unsuccessful attempts. While we inspected all of his incoming owl post and packages, we were never able to detect the potions that had been infused in the treats he received."

"How was it that you were able to find them more recently?"

"Pure dogged determination, and eighteen hours a day of analysis and testing for more than a year."

"Thank you, Professor. Just one more question, if you would. Were you able to discover who had delivered this poison to Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes, Lord Malfoy was able to secure positive proof of the culprit, which he shared with me."

"Would you tell the Wizengamot who was responsible for the drugging and resulting Imperius effect on Draco Malfoy?"

"It was done by Bellatrix Black Lestrange and her husband Rodolphus Lestrange."

"Thank you. What empirical evidence of your account is available?"

"I have submitted to the Wizengamot eighty-nine vials of memories and three hundred six scrolls of notes taken throughout the two year process of identifying the potion and creating its antidote."

"You say that there is an antidote?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Has the antidote been made available to Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes. He was fed the antidote without his knowledge beginning approximately two weeks ago, for the prescribed duration of six days."

"Is Draco Malfoy still under the effect of the Imperius potion and compulsion spells?"

"As of about seven days ago, no, he is not."

"Thank you, Professor. I have no more questions at this time."

Prosecutor Danburt rose from his seat and paced the floor in front of the witness. He seemed to be debating with himself over what to ask the formidable wizard before him. He turned to face the man and looked directly into his eyes. The twinkling blue gaze of the well-respected leader did not waver but instead seemed to issue a challenge. Danburt was not a man to be cowed.

"What purpose or reason would the Lestranges have for placing their nephew under such influence?"

"I cannot pretend to know the motivations and thinking of two such wicked and unstable individuals."

"You are not an ignorant man, Professor Dumbledore. Indeed, you are well known for your ability to analyze people and their driving passions. Speculate for us, if you would."

Albus sighed, not with frustration but with sadness. "Bellatrix, for as long as I knew her, was as manically passionate about her hatred of Muggles and so-called blood traitors as she was about the goals and methods employed by Tom Riddle in his effort to rid the wizarding world of what he viewed as a threat to the old ways. She would have done anything and everything in her power to ensure his success. That included giving over her nephew for their cause. Her husband was no less fanatic than she, and would have aided her in any effort."

"You speak of the Lestranges in the past tense, Professor. Should I take that to mean that they are dead?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us anything about how that came to be?"

"No," he answered truthfully, grateful beyond words for the Unbreakable Vow that he'd made the previous day with Lucius Malfoy regarding that very topic.

He heard the prosecutor harrumph with disbelief. "Then I suppose I have no further questions for this witness, your honor."

The Chief Warlock met Dumbledore's eyes for a fraction of a second before he released him from his responsibility. "You may step down."

To Marcus Phillips he said, "You may call your next witness."

"The Defense calls Hermione Granger."

The crowd whispered excitedly as the well-known young witch entered the courtroom and approached the witness stand.

"Please state your full name for the record," Phillips requested.

"I am Hermione Jean Granger."

"You have been certified by the bailiff as having consumed and placed under the influence of Veritaserum. Do you further swear and promise to tell the whole truth?"

"I do, upon a wizard's oath."

"Please tell us, Miss Granger, how you came to be acquainted with the defendant."

"We met when we were both first-year students at Hogwarts. We shared several classes together for five and a half years."

"Would you describe your relationship with him during those years?"

"It was adversarial and taunting for the first four years. He would ridicule me about my heritage, my appearance, and my, uh, obsessive thirst for knowledge."

"Your testimony implies that the interactions between you changed after that time. How so?"

"When we were in our fifth year, Draco began to get more vicious and cruel in his behavior. He attacked me once when we were in sixth year and was about to cast the Avada Kedavra curse on me when he was interrupted by a teacher. He made another attempt on my life a couple of years later when we happened upon each other in Hogsmeade."

"What was your most recent encounter with Mister Malfoy?"

"I was captured by him in a raid on our planning meeting about two weeks ago."

"What happened then?"

"He imprisoned me and several other Light fighters in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor."

"What happened to you while you were there?"

"He interrogated me several times, and got a bit violent when I refused his attempts to gain information from me."

"Was that all?"

"No," she replied, taking a deep, steadying breath. "On the last morning of my imprisonment there, he removed me from my usual cell and placed me in another room which was segregated from the other prisoners and had no views in or out. He sealed us into the room and interrogated me once more. When I again refused to answer his questions, he became extremely agitated and began to beat me. That seemed to not be enough of a punishment to satisfy him, so he vanished my clothing, then his own, and he raped me."

There were stunned gasps echoing throughout the gallery, and more than one person wondered how this young woman's testimony could possibly benefit the defense. The spectators watching Hermione were surprised at the young woman's composure and matter-of-fact delivery of such damning facts. Those who eyed Draco were dumbfounded when the young man dropped his face into his hands in a vain attempt to hide the tears that he was no longer able to hold at bay. The prosecutor appeared confused; this woman was making the Ministry's case quite well and yet the defense barrister did not seem at all concerned.

"What happened next?" Phillips prompted once the murmurs died down.

"Someone gained entry to the cell Draco had sealed and activated a Portkey in the form of a cloak draped over both of us. It transported us away from Malfoy Manor and to a small cottage in Whitfield, though I didn't know it at that moment."

"How and when did you become aware of your surroundings?"

"It was apparently several hours later. I'm quite certain that I lost consciousness because of the injuries I sustained, including having lost a good deal of blood. I awakened in a small bed with Draco standing over me. As I'm sure you can imagine, I was terrified."

"What happened next?"

"Draco began to speak, trying to reassure me that he wouldn't hurt me. He told me that he had tended to my wounds as best he could, cleaned me up, and placed me in the bed so that I'd be more comfortable."

"How did you feel about that?"

"I was… suspicious. He had made a total of three attempts on my life, and I had no reason to believe there wouldn't be a fourth."

"What happened then?"

"Well, that's when things started to shift. Over the next couple of days, Draco was completely true to his word. He took care of me, carrying me into another room so that I'd be warmer, continuing to care for my wounds, helping me to bathe and dress, even cooking meals for me."

"To what did you attribute this stark change in Mister Malfoy's behavior?"

"Well, at first I didn't have any idea. Then, he and I began to talk. We started to work out things that had been happening to him, and discovered that he had almost no memories of anything he'd done in the previous five years, including his attempts on my life."

"And you believed him?"

"At first, no. I thought he might have been trying to gain additional information by being nice to me, but it wasn't long before I saw evidence that this was not the case."

"And what was that evidence?"

"First, he was getting blinding headaches. They were so bad that he actually lost consciousness a couple of times. We talked about what seemed to be triggering these episodes and fairly quickly deduced that every time he either tried to fight against a compulsion or to remember something that he'd done, the headache would return in full force. The more pivotal the event, the worse Draco's headache would be.

"Then, he started to exhibit classic symptoms of addiction withdrawal. In the Muggle world, we call them DTs – delirium tremens. Since we had no medications or wands available to us, I encouraged him to drink as much water as he could to help clear his system of whatever drug or potion had been affecting him."

"And why did you believe that he'd been subject to a potion or spell?"

"I had three reasons. The dramatic behavior shift was the first clue. Second was the physical manifestation of symptoms. Third was the content of the conversations we had."

"And what was the content of those conversations?"

"Draco was horrified by what he'd done. He apologized to me in a dozen ways, both with his deeds and his words. He was incredibly emotional and wept with shame on more than one occasion. On our last night there, I had a dream reliving that last attack and woke up screaming. He was so upset that he was intent on committing suicide, and probably would have succeeded if I hadn't stopped him."

"Why did you stop him? He did, after all, try to kill you three times."

"Because I believed him. I believed in him. I was certain then, as I continue to be now, that he was being genuine and honest with his remorse. I didn't want Voldemort to claim another victim."

"Miss Granger, what would you like to see happen to Draco Malfoy now?"

"I know that there are many who would see him punished for what he did. I do not hold him responsible for his actions. I blame Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange for everything that they did using Draco's hands. He does not deserve to be punished. He's punishing himself enough. I wish for Draco to get help from Healers in coping with the knowledge that he was used so brutally for so long. I wish for Draco to rebuild and reclaim his own life, and to become the good and decent man I believe him capable of being." She fell silent, looking at the hands she'd folded in her lap. She seemed to struggle with her thoughts.

"Is there anything else you wish to say, Miss Granger?"

"I want you to know, Draco, that I meant what I said at the cabin. I have forgiven you, and my greatest wish now is that you forgive yourself," she said, addressing the defendant directly.

He raised his eyes to meet hers and it was obvious to anyone within twenty yards that both young people had moist eyes and dry throats. There seemed to be a mutual respect between them, and it was clear by the number of sniffles heard in the gallery that more than one person was moved by Hermione's gesture. Narcissa Malfoy had a pained look on her face and seemed to be fighting back tears of her own as she watched her son's interaction with his final victim.

"Thank you, Miss Granger. I have no further questions."

The prosecutor was on his feet before the Chief Warlock could speak. "Are you asking us to believe that you have completely forgiven Draco Malfoy for raping you and attempting to kill you not just once, but three times?" he asked, incredulous.

"I'm not asking you to believe anything. I am stating the truth, as you well know by virtue of the full dose of Veritaserum that you saw me consume."

Recognizing quickly that he had nothing to gain by pushing this witness, Mister Danburt reclaimed his seat, stating for the court, "I have no further questions for this witness."

"The testimony is now concluded. The Wizengamot will now retire to chambers to review exhibits submitted by the defense witnesses and to deliberate our verdict," the presiding official ordered. Amidst quiet murmurs, rustling of fabric, and the shuffling of feet, Draco was approached by Hermione Granger as she left the witness stand. In the most stunning act of the trial, she reached for his hand and squeezed it tightly. He squeezed back, indicating his gratitude and humility with a nod and tight smile.

Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:
> 
> Mon chou – my sweet.
> 
> Mère - Mother
> 
> Je promets, tout sera bien. - "I promise, everything will be alright."
> 
> Oui, Père, Je comprends, - Yes, Father, I understand.
> 
> Très bien, mon fils, - Very good, son.
> 
> Dites-moi. – Tell me.


	30. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of Covered in Crimson. Please do leave a comment to tell me what you think!

_**Present Day** _

The wait in the courtroom had seemed to go on for a lifetime, especially for the young man whose life hung in the balance. The reality was much more reasonable – two hours and forty-two minutes. When the members of the Wizengamot, excluding Albus Dumbledore who had been a witness for the defense, trooped back into the courtroom, none of their stony faces betrayed the outcome of their deliberations. When each of them had taken their seats, the Chief Warlock rose at the dais and tapped his wand to call the court to order.

“Hear ye, all who are gathered here. We sit in judgment of Draco Abraxus Malfoy, called to account on three hundred and thirty-eight felonies. Will the accused please rise?”

Draco was resolved to not allow himself to topple over as he rose from his seat. He locked his knees and planted his feet at shoulder’s width to stabilize his stance. His solicitor rose beside him, as was customary and proper. Barrister Phillips placed his own shoulder directly behind Draco’s, lending what little strength he could.

“Are you ready to hear our verdict, Draco Abraxus Malfoy?” the man at the dais asked.

Mustering all the dignity that the Malfoy name had once and now again - thanks to his parents’ change of heart – possessed, Draco squared his shoulders and answered, “Yes.”

“You were charged with more than three hundred serious crimes against the wizarding world, yet we have seen compelling evidence that the ultimate responsibility for these heinous acts does not rest with you. We have also seen and heard compelling evidence in the form of eyewitness accounts submitted through statement and affidavit of the harm that those actions have caused to literally hundreds of Muggles, witches, and wizards. We feel that to convict you of these crimes is not morally nor legally appropriate. Yet it is also not appropriate to absolve you of them as though they had never occurred.

“Therefore, the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot find thusly: You are hereby found not guilty on three hundred thirty-seven charges by reason of Unforgiveable magical compulsion. We find you guilty on one count of Physical Assault and sentence you forthwith. You will be expelled from Wizarding Great Britain for a period of three years. You will be stripped of your wand and privilege of magic for one year. You will pay reparations to the families of those harmed in the amount of five thousand Galleons each. You will be required to forfeit access to your family fortune during the three years of your exile and will be required to secure gainful employment. You may not initiate contact with anyone in Wizarding Great Britain with the exception of your parents and your solicitor. You will have one day to set your affairs in order and leave Great Britain. Do you understand your sentence?”

Draco wasn’t certain that he did, but he was nudged by an elbow to his back from his solicitor. He took that as an instruction to answer, and he replied, “Yes, your Honor.” He surmised correctly that anything he’d missed in his fog of shock and relief at not being shipped off to Azkaban would be explained by his counsel and his parents once the formal proceedings were over.

“You are dismissed to begin your preparations, and released to the custody of your parents. You will present yourself at the Ministry of Magic Auror’s Office no later than midnight tomorrow to surrender your wand and accept Portkey travel to the destination of your choice. We hope that you will use the time away from us wisely to heal your own heart and soul, and that you will find some peace for yourself in that effort. Good luck, Mister Malfoy, and may Merlin watch over you. The case of Ministry of Magic versus Draco Abraxus Malfoy is now closed.” The Warlock tapped his dais one final time with his wand to signal the end of the proceedings and more than half of the gallery rose to exit, having seen the result of the case that had drawn their interest.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had sat in rapt attention at each pronouncement made by the Chief Warlock. As anyone who knew him would expect, the senior Malfoy was listening for loopholes and openings through which a thestral-drawn carriage might fly. There weren’t many, but there was a tiny bit of wiggle room that might make Draco’s life a little more comfortable during his period of expulsion. He signaled the solicitor with a raised hand that they would meet in the prearranged location outside the Ministry. From there, the small group would return to Malfoy Manor to set their necessary plans in motion.

Draco, still appearing a bit stunned, followed his counsel mutely and only seemed to show signs of awareness when they met his parents in the sequestered alley two blocks away. His father said nothing, but wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders and Apparated to the family home. Narcissa, with Barrister Phillips lightly grasping her offered forearm, followed within seconds.

Ten minutes later, the four were seated around a rectangular ebony wood table and Lucius was offering libations. He’d expected Draco and Phillips to join him in partaking of a glass of Firewhisky, but had been surprised when Narcissa also asked for a glass. It had clearly been a trying day; Narcissa rarely drank anything stronger than elf-made wine.

“How are you feeling about this, Draco?” his father inquired, unable to read his quiet and blank-faced mood.

“I’m not really sure, Father. I’m relieved that I wasn’t sent to prison, but I’m troubled that I’ll be sent away for so long. I’d feel much better if I’d been allowed to stay with you and Mother.”

“Draco, you were exiled from Great Britain, but you were not exiled from your family. The court decreed that you were allowed to initiate contact with us, so you’ll be able to use the Floo to call us, or send us owl post, or visit with us anywhere but here, any time you like,” Lucius explained.

“Are you sure that’s what it meant?” he asked, not sure if he could hope for that much.

“Quite. Barrister Phillips has vast experience with these kinds of legal proceedings and he assures us that this will not be a violation of your sentence.” Lucius looked to the solicitor who eased Draco’s fears by nodding his head in the affirmative and adding a smile of confirmation. “In fact,” he continued, “it seems certain that the court intended for you to maintain contact with us to facilitate your healing and re-acclimation into Wizarding society.”

“It feels like there are a dozen decisions to be made in such a very short time, and I don’t know where to begin, Father,” Draco admitted. “In some ways, I feel like I’m still a fifteen-year-old. I’ve lost so much of my identity, it seems.”

“You’re not entirely off-pitch with that, Son. The effect of the potions you consumed subverted your normal emotional, social, and psychological maturation processes. You were operating not with your own thoughts, decisions, and desires for some very important years. That’s one of the reasons it will be important for us to remain in contact during this time, so that we can provide some guidance and perspective when you need it.”

“As I’m thoroughly certain I will, Father. So, what decisions do we need to make tonight?”

“First, we should talk about where you want to go. It is my understanding that, although you are not allowed direct access to the family cash reserves, you are allowed to use any property that we own outside of Great Britain. Is that correct, Marcus?”

“Yes, Lucius, it is. I would highly recommend, however, that you not use a lavish property, nor should you stuff it with Galleons. Draco’s activities will be monitored to ensure that he is meeting the terms of his sentence, so anything that pushes the envelope of the decree’s intent could send us back to court for a revision. Those are generally not a good thing, so you need to be circumspect about the arrangements that we make now,” he advised.

“Hunh, I was afraid of that. I guess we’ll need to rule out the villa in Italy, the Paris apartment, and the Greek property, then.”

“What about Salem?” Narcissa offered, her eyes alight with the sudden brainstorm.

“Salem? You mean in Massachusetts, in the States?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “there is a Black family property there for which I hold the deed. It’s a modest cottage, no more than six or seven rooms if memory serves. It’s on the edge of the Muggle section of town, on the south side of the wizarding community. It might be just the right thing.”

“But it’s so far,” Draco noted, sounding every bit the fifteen-year-old that his heart believed him to be at the moment.

“Technically, yes, but it would be a relatively simple thing to reconnect the Floo for placing calls, and there’s an International Portkey travel point in a section of Logan Airport in Boston, which is just a short Apparation jump away. We could easily visit whenever you want to see us.”

“Marcus, what is Draco allowed to do about funds? I know we’re not supposed to aid him with Galleons, but what about any money that is in his own name?”

“He would be allowed to use funds that have been in his own name for at least one year.”

“That should give you a little breathing room, Son. You have the small inheritance from Grandmère Rosier that became yours on your twentieth birthday. I think that was somewhere around one million Galleons.”

“Don’t forget, Lucius, that Draco must pay his reparations out of his own money. That cannot be paid by you,” Phillips added as a caution.

“What does that total?” Draco asked.

“Well, they identified one hundred eighty-nine families, at five thousand Galleons each. That totals nine hundred forty-five thousand galleons.”

“So that leaves me about fifty-five thousand galleons, total?” Draco asked, panic creeping into his voice. Such a small sum was positively terrifying to consider.

“You will come into a significant additional inheritance next year from Grandpère Malfoy’s estate. From what Marcus has said, it appears that those funds will be held in escrow for you until your sentence is complete. It would make the next couple of years more, uh, lean than what you’re accustomed to, Draco, but you will need to earn some money of your own in that time. That will help with ensuring you won’t starve,” his father said, teasing just a bit. He wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent, after all, which was typically a young person’s largest expense if they left their parents’ home.

“Yes, I’m supposed to work, they said. I have no idea what I’m qualified to do, especially without using magic,” he worried aloud.

“Yes, well, that could be a bit problematic. Is there anything you enjoy doing?” Lucius inquired.

“That’s unrelated to magic?” Draco scoffed.

“Sadly, I suppose that would be a prerequisite, at least for the first year, Son,” the elder Malfoy acknowledged.

“I don’t know,” he answered with a shrug, “I guess I like to read. That doesn’t require magic. But what jobs require reading?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, but I’d imagine that there are some.”

“Father, I know my prospects will be severely limited. Let’s face facts. I have no education credential, no work experience other than killing, raping, and maiming, and no training in any practical skills. I’m going to starve to death,” Draco grumbled dramatically.

His parents exchanged a glance and recognized their son’s immaturity was peaking through. It seemed they might need to play a stronger guiding role in helping Draco to find gainful employment. They’d not been prohibited from assisting the boy in his transition, as far as they knew. The major challenge about which the boy was right, though, was that his prospects were quite limited. He couldn’t work with magic, and knew next to nothing about living as a Muggle. The next twelve months would be hellish.

“Other than reading, what else do you like to do?”

“Eat. Sleep. I don’t know; I apparently haven’t been myself for the last five years. How am I supposed to know what I like and don’t like?” he sulked, his impatience getting the better of him.

“Well, you just recently spent several days living without magic. What did you do? Did you learn anything from that experience?” Narcissa pressed.

Draco rose from his seat at the table and began to pace the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “What I learned from that experience is that I know just about nothing,” he spat back. “I had to rely on the knowledge of a woman whom I had nearly killed, and whom I had always been taught to believe was completely inferior to me, to get through the day without freezing to death. She taught me how to light a fire without magic. She taught me how to use eckeltri.., no, electricity. She taught me how to start a furnace. She taught me how to cook, for Merlins’ sake! And all of this after I fucked her to within an inch of her life,” he shouted. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what I like, when I don’t even like _me_?” He turned his back on the three elders and stared out the window, his body shaking with fear, anger, and self-loathing.

“Draco,” his father said sharply, “I know you’re upset and frustrated, but I’ll thank you not to use such coarse language in front of your mother. You’ve made your point, however,” he finished with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he mumbled mechanically. “I’m sorry for a lot. I’m sorry for what I did to Hermione, because unfortunately, she’s the only victim I can really remember. I’m sorry that the wizarding world is having to practically start from scratch to rebuild itself, and that I contributed, rather enthusiastically, it appears, to the mess. I’m sorry that my own hands were instruments of death and destruction. I’m sorry that I ever learned a single Dark Arts spell. I’m even sorry that I loved chocolate so much that it got me into this situation in the first place. Right this moment, I’m sorry that I was ever born.” He stalked out of the room.

When Narcissa made to follow him, her husband stayed her with a gentle tug on her arm. “Leave him, dear. He’s had way too much to process for a lifetime, never mind for the day. I’ll instruct the house-elves to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish, but I think we should just give him a little bit of time right now.”

Draco’s body was coursing with pent-up energy and adrenaline. His anger and frustration fed the jittery feelings that made his hands tremble and his knees barely able to support him. He pushed open the French doors leading to the Manor’s courtyard with such force that the glass panes rattled in their frames. He wandered the grounds until he burned off some of the raw nerves that had caused him to snap at the three people who had been trying to do nothing less than help him in mapping out his new life. As the thought dawned on him, he shook his head in self-disgust and made his way back to the room where his parents and solicitor, now engaged in quiet and thoughtful conversation, waited for him to reappear.

“I’m sorry, Mother, Father, Mr. Phillips. I let my temper get the better of me and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have, and I apologize. If you’re all still willing, I think I have an idea or two about what I’d like to do.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hermione Granger spent the days after Draco’s trial in continued recuperation from her physical and emotional ordeals, and spared only a thought or two for the man she’d helped avoid an Azkaban sentence. As much compassion as she felt for the man who’d spent his adolescent years figuratively torturing her and his young adult years doing so literally, she was glad to leave Draco’s fate in his own hands while she determined what to do about her own.

Two weeks after Draco’s widely publicized trial and subsequent departure from Great Britain for parts unknown, Hermione had managed to reunite with all of her friends who had been as lucky as she to survive the war in relative good health and humor.

Not one of them had emerged unscarred, but the extent and location of those scars varied dramatically. Harry was still recovering from extensive magical wounds that had taxed the combined magical healing skill of seven of St. Mungo’s most senior medical professionals. They’d even considered calling in help from the Muggle world, until additional tests had confirmed that all of his injuries were magical in nature. His prognosis was improving with every passing day, but he would have a long road ahead to regain his strength. Months of magical therapy lay before him, but Harry was renowned for his determination. He would not give up on this fight any more than he had on the one against a particularly nasty Dark Wizard. That had turned out in his, and their favor, so Hermione, Ron, and their eclectic collection of friends would not doubt him now.

Ron was a prime example of someone who’d made the remarkable recovery that they all wished for Harry. He had continued to gain his strength and focus in the months leading up to the final confrontation and, with the exception of a slightly sharper temper, was well recognized as the old Ron Weasley.

Neville Longbottom, Hermione’s research partner, had seen little in the way of wand-to-wand battle for most of the long and violent conflict. That changed in the final two weeks when every able witch and wizard was called upon to lend his or her skill to the final push. He had acquitted himself admirably and managed to escape physical injury. The things he’d seen, however, had left him angry and sullen. It would be months before he’d return to his more jovial and lighthearted personality.

Among the most stunning turn of events was the sudden and complete recovery of Luna Lovegood. Her body had been magically sustained for more than four years after an unknown curse had left her catatonic. She woke up with no more fanfare or drama than if she’d just taken a short nap. Healers surmised that whoever had cast her curse had fallen in battle and thereby released her from the persistent unresponsive state.

Ginny Weasley had taken a nasty hex to her legs that had left her with recurring numbness and pain from hip to ankle. Her condition was improving slowly and, though her Healer was optimistic, it was clear she’d have a long and difficult period of recovery.

Hermione was visiting her younger red-haired friend when the next bout of several unexpected waves of melancholy overtook her. She was so emotional these days. Hermione had always been passionate and caring, but rarely gave in to depression; this was uncharacteristic. It also seemed that she had caught a flu from her exposure to the cold, harsh conditions at the cottage, as she’d felt ill for days.

“Hermione, you really should see a Healer about that,” Ginny encouraged.

“I’ll just take more Pepper-Up Potion and I’ll be fine.”

“Why would you think that when the previous ten doses did nothing to help?”

Hermione shrugged, unable to offer a reasonable answer.

“What if Malfoy cursed you with something? If he did it while you were unconscious, you wouldn’t know, and since he can’t seem to remember what he did, he couldn’t even tell you,” Ginny reasoned.

“He didn’t have a wand, Ginny.”

“Not at the cottage, but what if it happened at the Manor, before you left?”

Hermione shrugged again.

“Just promise me you’ll see a Healer, today?” she pleaded, anxious to see her friend’s malaise end.

“Fine, I’ll go, just to shut you up,” Hermione groused.

“Good. Then get out of here and let me get some rest,” Ginny ordered. She rose a bit unsteadily from the sofa on which she was resting, but gave her friend a tight and lasting hug. “Drop by later, if you want, but only if you have a Healer’s report to share.”

“Yes, mother hen,” Hermione relented. “I’ll pop over later.”

Three hours later, it was a stunned and white-faced Hermione Granger who requested entry through the open Floo connection.

“I never even considered the possibility, Ginny,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do?”

“I think you need to speak with the Malfoys, Hermione. They may be able to help,” she suggested. “Draco is their son, and I’m sure they’ll have a thought or two on the matter.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At eight o’clock on the next evening, Hermione Granger stood inside the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor, receiving a warm hug of greeting from Narcissa Malfoy and a gracious handshake from her husband.

“I was delighted to get your owl, Miss Granger. Lucius and I are so grateful for your testimony and the compassion and forgiveness that you gave to Draco. It means more than I can say,” Narcissa expressed with her eyes bright from suppressed tears.

“I’m so glad you agreed to see me, Lady Malfoy. I’m afraid that I have a little problem, and I’m in need of your input,” Hermione explained.

“Well, I’m quite certain that I’ll be thrilled to provide anything that you need, dear, but you must promise me something first,” Narcissa replied with feigned severity.

“Of course, if it’s within my power to do,” Hermione answered.

“Stop this ‘Lady Malfoy’ nonsense, and call me ‘Narcissa.’ I insist,” she told her guest. “And my husband is ‘Lucius.’” She pointedly pinned her husband with a look, daring him to contradict her. He wisely nodded in agreement at the younger woman.

“Oh, then please do call me ‘Hermione’ then,” she reciprocated with a smile.

“Shall we move to the sitting room?” Narcissa directed them toward the open door to her left.

Hermione sat on a lovely red velvet armchair, facing the loveseat where the Malfoys had perched side by side. She wrung her hands, unsure about how she’d approach the topic she needed to discuss. Narcissa aided her with her astute observation.

“It’s clear that something is troubling you, dear. Please don’t be worried; just tell us what’s happened.”

Hermione breathed deeply and spoke with eyes downcast. “It appears that there has been an unexpected consequence of what happened here at the Manor between Draco and me,” she began, “and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”

“Miss Granger,” Lucius interrupted, “I want you to know that whatever it is, we will do whatever we can to assist you. After everything you did to show such kindness to our son, we could do nothing less.”

“You may feel differently once I’ve told you, sir,” she answered.

“Nonsense, dear, just tell us. I promise it will be fine,” Narcissa interjected.

“I’ve been to see a Healer, and she’s told me that I’m four weeks pregnant. The child can only be Draco’s.”

_Two Years and Eleven Months Later_

Hermione was awakened by a tug on her curls. She was stunned that her daughter had managed to crawl up onto the bed; she was only a little over two years old and was barely taller than the bed itself.

“Mummy, wake up!” Louisa whispered.

In an instant, the young mother had wrapped her child in her arms and was peppering her pale cheeks with kisses. “How did you get all the way up here, munchkin?” Hermione asked.

“Mémère helped. She’s over there.” The little girl pointed to where her grandmother was emerging from Hermione’s wardrobe closet with a fluffy white dressing gown in hand.

“Good morning, Hermione. I’ve got to go to Diagon Alley today, and I thought the three of us might go together and do a little shopping,” Narcissa suggested.

“Oh. Sure, I guess that would be a good idea. I do need to get Louisa some new shoes,” she observed.

“You and I also need to have a little chat, dear. You know that Draco will be returning from Salem soon, and there are things that we need to settle before he arrives.”

Hermione sighed. She knew this day would be coming soon, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. The decisions she’d made three years ago, and the promises she’d wheedled out of the Malfoys, would all now come home to roost. She still felt that her strategy had been the best one for all concerned, but she recognized the enormous upheaval it would cause in mere days, at most. She was dreading it, and her expression told the story.

“Now, Hermione, I know this is going to be difficult for all of us, but it’s better that we are united and prepared. I made my feelings clear three years ago, but I acceded to your demands because the alternatives were unthinkable. I’ll have Lucius look after Louisa for a little while so that you and I can talk privately.” Narcissa swept her granddaughter into her arms and left the room in search of her husband.

Meanwhile, Hermione wrapped her dressing gown around her waist and cinched the belt tighter to ward against the chill. The room, however, was not the source of the icy tendrils running up and down her back. She stepped into the large peach marble bathroom and ran the taps in the shower. Once the water had reached an acceptable temperature, she removed her robe, hanging it on the silver hook just beside the glass doors. She stepped under the hot spray and back in time thirty months.

_Her belly was starting to round obviously and rapidly, she noted as the vanilla-scented shampoo bubbles made trails over her stretching skin. Sometimes she was still flabbergasted that she’d made the decision to keep this baby, a child who was not conceived in love but in the most horrible circumstances one could imagine. When she’d told the Malfoys about her pregnancy, she was certain that they’d not want her to have their son’s child. After all, she was not a pureblood, and there had not been an acknowledged half-blood Malfoy in recorded family history. She’d expected them to offer her assistance to either terminate the pregnancy or place the child in an adoptive home. She’d been prepared for either possibility. What she hadn’t been prepared for was that both of Draco’s parents had been, although shocked and dismayed at the predicament, quite accepting of her and of the possibility of their child becoming an acknowledged member of the Malfoy family. She remembered with bemusement the look that had passed between the elder couple and wondered for months about what the silent communication had meant. She’d never found out._

_They had immediately offered her a place in their home and financial assistance. They told her that they wanted her, regardless of the decidedly difficult relationship with their son, to become at least an unofficial member of the family. They professed their respect and admiration for her and their desire that her child would want for nothing. She had agreed to their proposal for two reasons. First, with her own parents long dead, she had little in the way of a familial support system, and second, she really had no other home of her own. She’d lived at Hogwarts for the past ten years and the war had interrupted her – everyone’s, to be true – education, leaving her without a specific plan for her future. When daily survival is the only goal, career dreams and ambitions tend to fall by the wayside. She had several reservations, however, and made a handful of counter-proposals to which they had finally agreed._

_The first was that she must be allowed to have full freedom to move about as she saw fit. She would not be a bird in a gilded cage. Hermione’s second condition was that her friends would be allowed to visit with her at Malfoy Manor unimpeded. Finally, and completely non-negotiable, was her decision that the Malfoys could not share the news of her pregnancy nor her semi-permanent residency at the Manor with Draco under any conditions. They had argued that Draco would inevitably discover the truth at some point. Hermione countered that Draco had enough to worry about with the daunting combinations of working and surviving without magic, living far away from family and friends, and the gargantuan task of learning about who he really was in his heart and becoming the kind of man he wanted to be. In addition, she was understandably reluctant to be forced into any kind of relationship with him, and while co-parenting was not an unusual arrangement, the parents had typically had an affiliation of some kind along the way. She and Draco certainly did not fall into that category. When he was done with his exile would be time enough to give him one more burden of which to be aware and to shoulder responsibility. She finally insisted – and they reluctantly agreed – that an Unbreakable Vow be made between them on that point._

_When Louisa had been born, the Malfoys had become doting grandparents in the instant they saw her white-blonde hair and steel-grey eyes. They had also tried to convince Hermione once again to allow them to tell Draco about his daughter. Once again, she refused._

_When the tiny girl had taken her first step, Lucius had been there to prop her up as she stumbled. “Pépère” was thoroughly enraptured by the child and her bouncy blonde curls. He’d wheedled Hermione that Draco should have been there to take his daughter’s hand. Once again, Hermione denied him that option._

_With Louisa’s first words – in French, courtesy once again of Pépère Lucius – Narcissa had pleaded the case that her boy was missing moments that she knew he would cherish. Hermione felt a fair amount of guilt with that barb, but she again refused to allow it._

_When the impish toddler had experienced her first burst of accidental magic – a priceless Ming Dynasty vase its unintentional victim – the Malfoys had been narrowly dissuaded from taking out a full-page announcement in the Daily Prophet to proclaim the child a magical prodigy when Hermione reminded them that it would be entirely too possible for Draco to obtain._

_In a development that Hermione found unsettling though not unpleasant, they doted on her nearly as much as on their granddaughter. She’d managed to get her wish to know Narcissa better, admittedly under unanticipated circumstances. She had to admit that she had grown fond of them, too, and would find it very difficult when she faced the prospect of not seeing them daily when she and Louisa moved from Malfoy Manor as she planned to do just prior to Draco’s return from his Ministry-imposed exile._

Hermione shook her head to clear away the thoughts of living apart from these people who now treated her as one of their own. She turned off the tap and squeezed the water out of her hair, a task that was no longer as onerous as it once was thanks to a slightly shorter haircut and to Narcissa’s enviable skill with permanent curl-relaxing charms. She quickly dried off and dressed in a comfortable pair of charcoal grey wool trousers and a dove grey v-neck cashmere sweater. She tugged on a pair of black leather heeled boots – hand-tooled and a birthday gift from Narcissa – and donned silver hoop earrings to complete her ensemble. She walked through the east wing’s corridors toward the room that she learned was Narcissa’s favorite; it had quickly become hers, too. The library’s double doors were already open, and her daughter’s grandmother awaited her arrival.

“Hermione, dear, don’t you look lovely!” Narcissa complimented her. She waved a hand toward a chair that was pulled slightly away from the small round table that held their continental breakfast. Hermione nodded her thanks with a smile, selected a flaky croissant and waited as Tuppy prepared a latte for her. After living with a handful of house-elves for nearly three years, she’d learned to relax a little and allow them to do what they loved. It was clear that there were well-treated by the Malfoys now; whatever happened in the past would stay there.

“You wanted to talk about Draco’s return,” Hermione prompted.

“Yes, dear. I think we need to work all of this out before he arrives,” Narcissa repeated her earlier concern.

“Do you know yet when that will be?” Hermione asked.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t have an exact date. Draco has been working that out with his case officer and he hasn’t yet told me when to expect him. I’m quite certain, though, that it won’t be more than a week.”

Hermione nodded her head in understanding. “I’ve begun to look for an apartment in Hogsmeade. I haven’t found anything suitable yet, but I’ve only seen three or four places. I’m sure something will be available shortly, as the first of the month is only three days away.”

Narcissa sighed impatiently. “I simply do not understand why you insist on moving out. This has been your home – and Louisa’s – for nearly three years. We’ll miss both of you desperately and I’m certain that Louisa will be lost without her Pépère. Won’t you please reconsider your decision and stay with us?”

“I’m sorry, Narcissa, but you know why we can’t stay. Draco will need somewhere to live when he returns, and this is his home. I won’t exacerbate an already horribly uncomfortable situation even further by hanging around here with a child he doesn’t know and probably won’t want.”

“You don’t know that, Hermione. He’ll probably fall in love with Louisa in the first ten seconds that he sees her. This manor is so large that you’d never need to run into each other unless you wanted to. We really wish you’d stay,” she pleaded.

Hermione’s resolve was wearing down ever so slightly, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be cajoled or bullied. If she stayed, it would be because she made the decision that it was best for her and her daughter. She hadn’t yet reached that conclusion, and felt fairly certain that she would stick to her original plan to find a small apartment for the two of them. “The best I can do, Narcissa, is to promise that I’ll think about it, but please don’t get your hopes up.”

“That’s better than a flat-out ‘no,’ I suppose,” she agreed with another sigh.

“Look, I’m sure we have a few days to work all of this out. Let’s just enjoy our day in Hogsmeade with Louisa. Maybe you and I could even look at a couple of places so that you’d be comfortable with where we’re living,” Hermione offered.

“That’s fine, dear. But I will insist that you allow us to pay for your apartment if you do decide to leave,” Narcissa replied, her voice an odd mixture of warmth and sternness.

“Narcissa…”

The older woman lifted a hand to stop Hermione’s coming protest. “You’ve only just completed your Healer training and it will take you a few months to have enough cash flow to manage everything. Lucius and I will pay for the apartment and for any furnishings you need for Louisa, and that’s final.” Left unspoken was the implication that any bill Hermione incurred while furnishing her new home would mysteriously never arrive in her owl post. Narcissa drove a hard bargain and never lost a battle she felt was worth fighting. The substantial trust funds that had been established for Louisa, with Hermione’s reluctant consent, and for Hermione herself, about which the young woman knew nothing at the moment, went unmentioned.

“Let’s just get Louisa and go. I’d like to stop off at the Apothecary before it closes at noon,” Hermione mentioned.

The two women found Lucius and Louisa splayed out on the floor of her playroom, hundreds of blocks surrounding them in an odd approximation of a castle and moat. They were speaking their own special language, a mix of French, English, and baby talk, when Hermione cleared her throat to gain their attention.

“Pépère builds, Mummy!” Louisa excitedly announced.

“So he does, sweetheart,” Hermione acknowledged. “It looks like Louisa builds too.”

“Yes, Mummy. Me too.” Her blonde curls bobbed up and down along with her head.

“Are you ready to come with Mummy and Mémère? We’re going to Hogsmeade to get you some new shoes.”

“Me loves new shoes!” Louisa agreed.

“I love new shoes,” Hermione corrected automatically.

“Mummy loves new shoes too?”

The adults laughed, but Louisa’s look of confusion made it clear that she didn’t understand their amusement.

“We’ll be back in a couple of hours, Lucius. Don’t wait for us for lunch; we’ll probably get something in town,” Narcissa instructed.

“Yes, love. Shall I assume we’ll all be together for dinner?”

“Certainly. Have Tuppy prepare roast chicken tonight,” Narcissa called over her shoulder as the three women left the room to head out for the afternoon. It was still a bit brisk, so the three ladies donned coats, gloves, and hats to ward off the late March chill. Lucius was still sitting on the floor stacking blocks when they activated the Floo five minutes later.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco Malfoy was as happy as he could remember being in his entire life. Today was the final day of his exile from Wizarding Great Britain and he had finally finished packing up the few items he wanted from his life in Salem. It hadn’t been an easy road, but he’d managed first to survive and then to grow. Flourishing, he hoped, would come next.

Within a couple of weeks, he had found employment in a Muggle-owned restaurant that catered to the tourists who flooded Salem, all believing that the lore of wizardry was from a long-dead time in history. He’d picked that as a possibility because it was the one area of the Muggle world to which he’d had even the tiniest exposure, thanks to Granger’s cooking lessons. He hadn’t hated that – had actually found it a bit relaxing and interesting, so he’d decided that the restaurant business would be his refuge. He started as a kitchen helper, clearing tables and washing pots. He earned the rough equivalent of sixty Galleons a week, plus any tips that the more generous wait staff might share. The work was backbreaking and dirty, but Draco dove in with enthusiasm, hoping to gain something akin to satisfaction from his tiny and incremental accomplishments.

Having been blessed with both a sharp intellect and quick wit, the young man quickly made an impression on his supervisors and gained more responsibility. Within three months, he’d been promoted to a waiter’s job and earned an additional forty dollars each week, about eight more Galleons in Wizard money. Tips brought in another fifty dollars, and he was now able to afford to take the bus to work when the weather was bad, as it often was on Massachusetts’ north shore.

He’d found, however, that while he’d had some minor success at work, his personal situation was less stable. He’d been plagued with horrible nightmares since he had arrived in Salem, and he had no idea what to do about it. It had gone on for weeks, and he was beginning to feel the effects of interrupted and reduced sleep. Worse, he didn’t have any idea whether the dreams were simply his imagination or memories that were beginning to resurface after having been repressed for so many years. He finally confided in his father during one late night conversation through the Floo. The following week, Lucius had secured – with Barrister Phillips’ help - permission from the Ministry to pay for Mind Healer visits for Draco. They had approved visits to a Muggle Psychologist if Draco was unable to find a wizarding equivalent in Salem. Just days later, Draco was fortunate to find a Mind Healer who had also had earned a PhD as a Muggle Psychologist at the renowned and prestigious Boston University. He had been visiting Dr. David Roy for an hour each week for the last two and a half years; he would miss the man’s insights and empathetic ear.

Dr. Roy had helped Draco to rebuild his sense of self and repair his battered self-esteem. He’d given Draco tools to cope with his disappointments and manage his anger. He’d helped the young man to recognize where blame should rest and when to shoulder his share of responsibility. Draco’s nightmares did not disappear completely, but they did trouble him less frequently, and he was finally coming to accept himself as a man who was not flawless, but who had something to offer to the world.

Along his journey of self-discovery, Draco progressed further still in his career at the Grapevine Restaurant. He watched and learned, and soon he was working as a prep chef, spending the day chopping, filleting, stirring, and sautéing. It wasn’t glamorous, and he still only earned less than the equivalent of one hundred Galleons a week, but he felt that he was doing an honest day’s work, and that was the greatest sense of accomplishment he’d ever had. It was enough.

Draco had had another startling surprise in his personal journey. After the first year, he’d petitioned per the terms of his sentence to have his wand and magic privileges reinstated. Since he had met all of the requirements they had placed upon him, the Wizengamot had kept their end of the bargain and returned his thin hawthorn wand along with his right to cast magic. What had been startling was that he’d tucked the wand away in a drawer and used it only rarely. Working and achieving with his hands had become an elemental part of his recovery and healing; he would not take the easy way when he had lessons still to learn.

Now that the time had come to leave Salem, Draco’s joy mingled with the likelihood that he’d miss his adopted home in the historic town of Salem had hippogriffs dancing in his stomach. His Portkey would be leaving in two minutes, and he’d checked three times to ensure that he’d not forgotten anything. Those hippogriffs had become prancing thestrels.

When the Portkey activated, he was deposited at the debarkation spot at the edge of Hogsmeade. It was a lovely day, and he thought he’d stroll through the town center for a few moments to get reacquainted with the shops and purveyors. He wasn’t expected anywhere, so a little walk wouldn’t create any issues.

He walked along the center street, peering in windows and stopping now and again to take a closer look at something that caught his eye. He was nearing the Apothecary when his eye was most definitely caught by a woman standing outside the shop. He wasn’t close enough to be absolutely certain, but from the rear, the woman looked like his mother. But, he reasoned, it just couldn’t be her. She was holding the hand of a small child, who couldn't have been even than three years old. He was drawn subconsciously to the woman who so resembled the mother who’d risked everything for him, and he found that he had taken several steps in her direction without even realizing that he’d moved. His eyes widened as the woman turned to profile, and her resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy became more than coincidence.

His other senses began to function and he heard the child speak. “Mémère, where is Mummy? Why is she taking so long?”

The Narcissa Malfoy look-alike smiled at the child, obviously a girl, he noted as the whipping wind sent her little hat flying and her long, blonde curls tumbling to her shoulders. “Look, Louisa, she’s coming now.”

Draco tried not to look. Something told him it would be a very bad idea. But his eyes refused to listen to reason and he followed the direction of the woman’s gaze. The door of the Apothecary swung open and another woman stepped into the sunlight. The little girl shouted an enthusiastic greeting - “Mummy!” – and vaulted into her mother’s arms. This woman was a Hermione Granger look-alike.

_Oh, Merlin. No. How can this be?_ Draco Malfoy felt the blood leave his face and the ability to remain upright desert him in an instant. His knees buckled beneath him and struck the ground with a thud. In that moment, Narcissa Malfoy gasped in shock. In that second, Hermione Granger stared in disbelief. In that next breath, the tiny, bright eyes he met were an exact copy of his own.

 

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Mémère” and “Pépère” are French colloquialisms for "Grandma" and "Grandpa," and they are the names I called my (very, totally, 100% French-speaking) grandparents, all four of them!


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